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i  A  H  "B  UTTE  RV/O  Rff( 


LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 

AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


606.1 
C43Pt>ut 


lltlNOB  HISTORICAL  SURVEY 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  WHITE  CITY. 


THE  ZIGZAG  SERIES 

BY 

HEZEK1AH    BUTTERWORTH. 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  EUROPE. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  CLASSIC  LANDS. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  ORIENT. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE   OCCIDENT. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  NORTHERN  LANDS. 

ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS   IN  AC  AD  I  A. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE  LEVANT. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  INDIA. 

ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE  ANTIPODES. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  BRITISH 
ISLES. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  GREA  T  NORTH- 
WEST. 

ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  AUSTRALIA. 

ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  ON   THE    MISSISSIPPI. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  ON  THE  MEDITER- 
RANEAN. 

ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE  WHITE  CITY. 


ESTES  AND   LAURIAT,  Publishers, 

BOSTON,    MASS. 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS 


IN  THE  WHITE  CITY. 


WITH 


VISITS  TO  THE  NEIGHBORING  METROPOLIS. 


BY 

HEZEKIAH    BUTTERWORTH. 


FULLY    ILLUSTRATED. 


BOSTON: 
ESTES    AND    LAURIAT, 

FU  r.LISHERS. 


Copyright,  1894, 
BY    ESTES    AND    LAURIAT. 


All  Rights  Rene/red. 


<»Siubrrsttg  $3rtss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  PON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE, 


HE  last  Zigzag  volume  sought  to  explain  the  American 
consular  service,  and  to  relate  wonder-tales  told  in 
consular  offices.  This  volume  seeks  to  illustrate  the 
White  City,  and  to  show  what  might  have  been  seen 
at  the  Fair  that  would  be  of  service  to  patriotic 
American  holidays,  the  Village  Improvement  Societies,  and  social 
life,  and  especially  to  commend  the  work  of  the  Folk-Lore  Societies, 
and  to  give  the  history  of  the  White  Bordered  Flag. 

I  have  made  the  Folk-Lore  Congress  a  leading  feature  of  the  book 
for  story-telling  purposes,  but  give  to  the  White  Bordered  Flag  the 
place  of  the  crowning  glory  of  the  Fair,  as  the  new  education  of  Peace 
now  demands  the  attention  of  the  people,  and  especially  of  societies 
and  schools.  The  recent  resolution  of  the  British  Parliament  calling 
for  a  Peace  Commission  between  America  and  England  to  settle 

*j 

international  disputes,  and  the  worthy  response  of  the  President  in 
his  last  Message,  would  seem  to  be  a  promising  and  perhaps  decisive 
advance  towards  the  union  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  in  the  cause 
of  Peace.  The  history  of  the  Peace  movement  in  England  and  in 
America  has  now  a  new  interest,  and  this,  amid  the  usual  melange  of 
stories  which  I  have  used  in  this  series  of  books,  I  have  sought  to 
illustrate  and  explain: 


viii  PREFACE. 

44  What  does  the  memory  of  the  White  City  yield  to  our  new 
patriotic  national  life  ?  " 

This  question,  so  far  as  it  concerns  young  peoples'  societies,  we 
have  sought  to  answer.  The  White  City  was  the  prophetic  vision 
of  the  ages,  and  was  itself  prophetic  of  the  new  eras  of  fraternity 
and  peace.  Its  memory  is  a  delight,  and  to  write  of  it  is  a  pleasure.^- 
To  the  American  people  it  will  ever  be  revelation :  "  See  that  thou 
makest  all  things  after  the  pattern  that  was  showed  to  thee  on  the 
Mount." 

This  is  the  sixteenth  volume  of  this  series  of  books.  In  other 
volumes  we  have  travelled  in  fancy  over  the  world  of  stories ;  in  this 
we  go  to  the  White  City  by  the  Lake,  and  meet  the  story-telling 
world  as  it  came  to  us. 

I  am  indebted  to  Messrs.  Harper  and  Bros,  for  permission  to 
republish  "  The  Last  Song  of  the  Robin,"  which  I  wrote  for  the 
Thanksgiving  number  of  the  "  Weekly,"  1893;  and  "The  Old  Smoke 
Chamber,"  which  appeared  in  the  Christmas  number,  1888;  and 
to  the  "  Youth's  Companion "  for  like  courtesy.  Several  popular 
authors  have  given  me  helps,  and  they  are  duly  acknowledged  in 
their  places.  As  in  the  former  volume,  Miss  Florence  Blanchard 
has  afforded  me  assistance,  and  in  this  volume  has  rendered  me 
much  service  in  preparing  the  parts  on  the  History  of  Peace. 

The  "Chink,  Chink"  story  was  first  published  in  "St.  Nicholas," 
and  the  poem  entitled  "  The  White  Bordered  Flag  "  was  read  at  the 
Fair  Auxiliary  by  the  author  at  the  opening  of  the  Congress  of 
Representative  Youth. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  MARLOVVES  AT  HOME 13 

II.     THE   STORY   OF    THE  OPENING   OF    THE    WORLD'S    COLUMBIAN 

EXPOSITION 47 

III.  THE  FOLK-LORE  SOCIETY'S  QUEER  STORIES 59 

IV.  THE  STORY  OF  THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  WHITE  CITY      ....  89 

V.     CHICAGO   AND    ITS    MAKERS,  —  THE    CITY  OF   THE   TWENTIETH 

CENTURY 98 

VI.     THE  M ARLOWES'  FIRST  DAY  AT  THE  FAIR.  —  THE  MOST  USEFUL 

THING  AT  THE  FAIR 118 

VII.     THE  FUNNIEST  THING  AT  THE  FAIR 137 

VIII.     THE  GRANDEST  SCENE  OF  ALL 171 

IX.     FOLK-LORE  TALES  IN  THE  OLD  COLONIAL  KITCHEN     ....  184 

X.     THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL 218 

XI.     WHAT   MR.   MARLOWE   FOUND   TO   TAKE   HOME  IN  THE  STATE 

BUILDINGS       237 

XII.     THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE 281 

XIII.     NIGHT  IN  THE  COURT  OF  HONOR 310 


ILLUSTRATIONS, 


PAGE 

West  Lagoon,  Wooded  Island,  and  Man- 
ufactures Building     ....      Frontispiece. 

Fine  Arts  Building 14 

Agricultural  Building    .     .....     .  17 

The  Post  Office 21 

Manufactures  Building  and  Electric  Foun- 
tain      27 

The  Forestry  Building 33 

Entrance  to  Egyptian  Theatre,  Street  in 

Cairo 39 

Electricity  and  Mines  Building  ...  47 
Administration    Building    and    Court   of 

Honor 48 

Opening  Day  Procession 49 

Street  Scene,  —  Opening  Day    ....  52 

Administration  Building 53 

Machinery  Hall 57 

Port  of  Chicago 59 

Government  Building 60 

The  Agricultural  Building 61 

Macmonnies  (Columbian)  Fountain      .     .  63 

The  Peristyle 64 

Chicago  Hotels 65 

Government  Building .68 

The  Transportation  Building      ....  69 

The  Horticultural  Building 73 

Machinery  Hall 76 

Mines  and  Mining  Building  81 

Utah  State  Building 85 

Madison  Street 87 

The  Lake  Front 89 

Statue  of  the  Republic  and  Manufactures 

Building 91 

The  Art  Palace 93 

Michigan  Avenue 96 

Chicago  in  1830 98 


PAGE 

Chicago  from  the  Auditorium  ....  99 

La  Salle 101 

Illinois  Central  Terminus  and  the  Harbor  103 

Produce  Exchange 106 

State  Street 107 

Mr.  Potter  Palmer 109 

Mrs.  Potter  Palmer 109 

Residence  of  Mr.  McVeach  .  .  .  no 

Great  Union  Stock-Yard 1 1 1 

Residence  of  Mr.  Kimball 113 

High  Buildings  in  Chicago 113 

A  Ten-Story  House 114 

A  Pork-Packing  Establishment  .  .  .  114 

Mr.  P.  D.  Armour 115 

A  Pig  Killer 115 

Residence  of  Mr.  Potter  Palmer  .  .  .  116 

Mr.  Pullman 116 

Residence  of  Mr.  Pullman 117 

Byzantine  Door  of  the  Transportation 

Building 118 

A  View  of  Midway,  looking  East  .  .  119 

German  Village 122 

Ferris  Wheel 123 

Captive  Balloon 125 

Looking  Southeastfrom  the  Ferris  Wheel  1 26 

Oriental  Wedding  Procession  ....  127 

Hagenback's  Museum 129 

Irish  Village,  —  Donegal  Castle  .  .  .  130 

Horticultural  Building 131 

The  Whaleback  Passenger  Steamer  .  .  133 

Atlas 135 

Water  Tower 1 37 

Lincoln  Park 138 

Parade  of  Actors  and  Oriental  Band  on 

Street  of  Cairo 139 

Damascan  Swordsmen i4f 


12 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The  Egyptian  Donkey  Boys,  mounted  .  143 

Corner  of  Mosque,  in  Cairo  Street  .  .  147 

Detail  of  the  Golden  Door 151 

The  Boat-Landing  and  the  Lake,  from 

the  Liberal  Arts  Building  ....  155 

Administration  Building 159 

Egyptian  Juggler 165 

Fisheries  Building 171 

Administration  Building 172 

The  Electrical  Building 175 

Agricultural  Building,  from  Electricity 

Building 179 

Convent  of  La  Rabida 181 

Caraval  Santa  Maria 182 

Transportation  Building 184 

New  England  Kitchen 185 

Mrs.  Preston,  New  England  Kitchen, 

Midway 187 

New  England  Girls  and  their  Chaperon, 

from  the  New  England  Kitchen  .  .  188 
Detail  of  Statue,  south  of  Manufactures 

Building 191 

Irish  Village,  —  Blarney  Castle  .  .  .  193 

Scene  in  Old  Vienna 196 

Interior  View,  Manufactures  Building     .  199 

Spanish  Building    ....          ...  203 

United  States  Battle-ship  "  Illinois  "  .  205 

Columbian  Fountain  and  Court  of  Honor  213 

Mr.  Field 218 

Hungarian  Dancers 219 

Musicians  from  Moorish  Theatre  .  .  223 


Electricity  and  Manufactures  Building  . 

Kansas  Building 

Florida  Building 

California  State  Building 

Illinois  State  Building 

Woman's  Building 

Chinese  Theatre 

A  Family  of  Berberines  in  the  Street  of 
Cairo,  —  Midway 

Masonic  Temple 

Japanese  Ho-o-den 

City  Hall 

Ceylon  Building 

Manufactures  Building 

Clock  Tower  in  the  Manufactures  Build- 
ing   

French  Department  of  the  Manufactures 
Building 

French  Colonies  Building 

Horticultural  Building  and  Woman's 
Building 

Draw-bridges 

Stock- Yards 

Peristyle,  from  the  Agricultural  Building 

The  Electrical  Building  on  a  Moonlight 
Night 

German  Building 

Javanese  Fiddler,  from  the  Midway  .     . 

The  Ferris  Wheel  at  Night      .... 

Administration  Building  by  Night 

India  Building 


PAGE 

233 
238 

239 
241 

243 
245 
248 

253 

259 
265 

273 
277 
281 


297 

30  [ 

305 


313 


3'7 
3'9 
320 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  WHITE  CITY- 


CHAPTER  i. 

THE    MARLOWES   AT    HOME. 

ANTON  MARLOWE  was  the  Superintendent  of 
the  Public  Schools,  and  the  President  of  the  Folk- 
Lore  Society  in  his  native  town,  which  consisted  of 
a  New  England  village  surrounded  by  a  wide  extent 
of  country.  He  was  usually  the  chairman  of  the 
Committee  on  Patriotic  Celebrations  ;  and  he  took 
an  active  interest  in  the  Society  for  Schoolhouse  Decorations,  and 
in  the  Society  for  the  Improvement  of  the  Country  Roads.  He  was 
a  Sam  Adams-like  man,  always  busy  in  some  plan  for  the  public 
good.  His  father  was  Ephraim  Marlowe,  the  Quaker,  and  he  had  a 
son  named  Ephraim,  a  lad  some  fifteen  years  old,  —  lk  old  Ephraim  and 
young  Ephraim,"  the  townspeople  called  them. 

The  Village  Improvement  and  Folk-Lore  Society,  as  an  active 
organization  in  the  old  town  had  come  at  last  to  be  called,  passed 
some  singular  resolutions  in  the  spring  of  1893.  This  society  had 
begun  as  a  village  improvement  effort ;  but  it  had  found  so  many  old 
traditions  and  legends  in  its  historic  work  that  it  had  added  to  it  the 
Historic  Society,  under  the  name  of  the  Folk-Lore  Society.  The 
workers  in  this  organization  had  given  a  number  of  entertainments 


14  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN    THE    WHITE    CITV. 

on  the  evenings  of  patriotic  holidays,  and  had  saved  several  hundred 
dollars  for  public  use.  Manton  Marlowe  had  been  the  leading- 
mind  in  these  societies.  He  had  arranged  the  entertainments  for  the 
holiday  evenings,  had  conducted  excursions  into  historic  fields,  had 
been  a  leader  in  the  repair  of  old  roads  and  the  marking  of  historic 
places.  He  was  a  good  story-teller,  and  he  had  collected  the  old 


FINE    ARTS    BUILDING. 

traditions  of  the  place,  and  related  them  in  story-telling  lectures  to  the 
last  society. 

When  the  Village   Improvement   and   Folk-Lore    Society  met  in 
May,  it  greatly  surprised  good  Mr.  Marlowe.      It  resolved:  — 

(1)  "That  the  efforts  of  our  worthy  President  merit  practical  appreciation; 

(2)  "That  the  Society  appropriate  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  from  its 
treasury  to  give  him  an  excursion  to  the  World's  Columbian  Exhibition; 


THE   M  A  K  LOWES  AT  HOME.  15 

"  That  he  be  asked  to  accept  this  as  an  expression  of  esteem,  and  that  he  be 
respectfully  requested  to  answer,  on  his  return,  the  following  questions : 

(1)  "  What  was  the  most  amusing  thing  that  you  saw  at  the  Fair? 

(2)  "  What  was  the  most  useful  exhibit  that  you  saw  at  the  Fair? 

(3)  "  What  was  the  grandest  sight  that  you  saw  at  the  Fair? 
(4    "  And  what  was  the  most  useful  lesson  of  the  Fair?  " 

Mr.  Marlowe  listened  to  these  resolutions  with  amazement.  As 
President  of  the  Society,  he  left  the  chair,  and  the  Vice  President  put 
the  resolutions  to  vote. 

u  As  many  as  are  in  favor  of  these  Resolutions,  whose  purpose 
is  to  send  our  President  to  the  World's  Columbian  Exhibition,  that 
he  may  see  the  Fair  for  us,  and  return  to  us  with  new  plans  for  the 
improvement  of  our  town  and  its  social  life,  please  say  'Ay.'" 

Every  voice  in  the  Society  shouted  "Ay." 

"  It  is  a  unanimous  vote,"  said  the  Vice  President.  "  Mr.  Marlowe, 
we  cannot  go  to  the  Fair,  so  we  have  selected  you  to  see  the  Fair  for 
us,  and  to  report  what  you  may  find  there  that  may  be  of  use  to  a 
country  town.  Will  you  serve  the  Society  ?  " 

Mr.  Marlowe  stood  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  said  with  a  choking 
voice  :  — 

"Yes,  yes,  my  friends,  if  you  put  it  in  that  way!  My  heart  is  full, 
but  I  promise  you  all  that  I  will  put  my  conscience  into  my  eyes.  I 
will  use  my  eyes  for  the  town  and  not  for  myself.  I  would  do  any- 
thing to  advance  the  interests  of  this  grand  old  town.  Let  me  see, 
what  is  it  I  am  to  do  ?  Report  to  you  what  is  the  funniest,  most  use- 
ful, and  the  grandest  thing  that  I  see  at  the  Fair,  and  all  that  I  find 
that  can  be  of  benefit  to  us  here.  Yes,  my  friends,  I  will  go.  I  thank 
you  for  your  good  will  and  confidence  with  all  my  heart !  " 

One  of  the  Directors  of  the  principal  railroad  to  California  via 
Chicago,  was  present.  He  arose  and  said :  — 

"  Mr.  Marlowe,  your  interest  in  the  Village  Improvement  Society 
was  the  influence  that  led  our  company  to  extend  a  branch  line  here. 


1 6  XIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 

I  will  give  you  two  passes  to  Chicago  and  return.  You  may  like  to 
take  one  of  your  family  with  you." 

When  Manton  Marlowe  returned  home  that  night,  he  was  a  happy 
man.  His  public  spirit  had  returned  to  bless  him.  His  wife  was  an 
invalid,  and  she  could  not  go  to  the  Fair.  His  son  Ephraim  wished 
to  go.  He  had  heard  what  the  Society  had  done. 

So  Ephraim  sat  down  by  his  father,  and  expected  to  receive  the 
invitation. 

It  was  a  mellow  May  evening.  As  the  two  sat  side  by  side,  old 
Ephraim  came  slowly  into  the  room  and  joined  them. 

11  Manton/'  said  the  latter,  "  I  am  an  old  man." 

11  Yes,  father,  but  not  very  old." 

u  I  can  travel  on  the  cars." 

u  Yes,  as  well  as  I." 

"  I  never  been  to  manv  places  in  mv  long  life." 

^       1  >  O 

"  No.     I  wish  that  you  could  go  to  the  Fair,  father." 

"  Manton,  I  want  to  go.  Why,  I  have  been  preaching  peace  in 
the  old  Meeting-House  on  the  Hill  for  forty  years,  and  I  would  feel  as 
though  I  could  depart  in  peace,  if  I  could  only  attend  the  meetings  of 
the  Peace  Congress.  I  have  been  reading  about  that  proposed  Con- 
gress, and  dreaming  about  it.'' 

"  Young  Ephraim,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe,  "  I  know  that  you  want  to 
go  to  the  Fair  ;  but  would  you  not  rather  have  grandfather  go?" 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  the  manly  boy,  "  I  shall  be  happy  if  he  can  go.' 

"  Thou  hast  well  spoken,"  said  old  Ephraim.  "  Thy  heart  is  right, 
and  I  can  see  that  it  is  already  consecrated.  But  why  can  we  not 
both  go?  I  have  a  little  money  of  my  own.  I  will  pay  my  own  way." 

"  Oh,  grandfather,  and  we  will  see  the  world  all  living  together  in 
peace  in  one  white  city." 

"  Yes,  boy.  I  have  seen  it  in  visions.  I  never  expected  to  see  it  in 
the  flesh.  What  have  you  to  say,  Manton  ?  " 

"We  will  all  go.     The  papers  say  that  the  White  City  by  the  Lake 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  19 

is  the  most  beautiful  sight  that  ever  arose  in  this  world  under  the  sun. 
I  am  glad  that  we  can  see  it  together." 

"  I  am  told,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  the  white-bordered  flag  is  to 
be  carried  there.  That  flag  is  the  beginning  of  the  peace  of  the  world. 
To  see  it  would  turn  this  old  heart  into  a  psalm.  It  would  make  me 
sing  like  the  men  of  old,  Quaker  that  I  am!  " 

The  sunset  lit  up  the  far  hills  and  faded,  and  the  three  sat  together 
long  into  the  evening,  planning  their  journey  to  the  White  City. 

Mr.  Marlowe  was  a  popular  story-teller.  His  love  of  folk-lore 
stories  had  given  him  his  place  as  leader  of  the  Village  Improve- 
ment Society.  He  liked  to  relate  stories  in  which  old-time  charac- 
ters could  be  imitated  by  voice  and  manner.  We  shall  use  in  this 
volume  several  stories  of  this  kind,  as  he  told  them  at  some  folk-lore 
social  gatherings  at  the  Fair. 

A  favorite  story  of  his,  "  The  Old  Auctioneer,"  or  "  The  Last  Song 
of  the  Robin,"  is  a  specimen  of  his  peculiar  stories,  and  a  picture  of 
that  department  of  folk-lore  called  the  "  Folk-Lore  Story."  We  give 
it  here :  — 

THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN. 

"  SUSAN,  I  can  see  that  old  farm  now  in  my  mind's  eye,  —  the  country  road, 
the  guide-post  on  which  was  printed  '  20  Miles  to  Boston.'  I  can  see  the  painted 
tavern,  and  the  dark  pond  where  the  mysterious  travellers  were  killed.  I  can 
fancy  hubbly  oak-trees ;  the  way-side  orchard ;  the  corner  under  the  trees 
where  the  white  avens  bloomed ;  the  balm  bed,  the  red-pepper  patch,  the  lilac- 
bushes,  and  the  bouncing-bet.  I  can  hear  conquiddles,  as  we  called  the 
bobolinks,  as  they  used  to  fly  and  sing  in  the  windward  meadows ;  red-winged 
blackbirds  in  the  woodland  pastures;  martin  birds  under  the  eaves;  and  the 
first  song  of  the  robin  as  he  came  out  of  the  woods,  like  the  dove  from  Noah's 
Ark,  to  see  if  the  dry  land  had  appeared.  And,  Susan,  I  can  hear  the  last  song 
of  the  robin." 

The  old  man's  eye  looked  over  the  great  prairie,  which  spread  out  before 
him  like  a  sea. 


2O  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 

"  It  did  n't  look  like  that,  Susan,  where  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  the  same 
corn-field,  and  the  rain-plover  cries,  and  all  is  so  wide,  wide,  wide. 

"  Susan,  I  Ve  been  thinking.  I  never  told  you  much  about  my  twin  sister, 
who  lives  on  the  old  farm  now  on  the  North  River,  in  Massachusetts.^  She  's 
seventy-five  years  old,  come  yesterday.  I  Ve  had  a  letter  from  her.  She  's  in 
trouble,  Susan.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  go  to  her,  old  as  I  am.  I  do,  Susan." 

"  You  are  too  old,  grandpa." 

"  The  old  place  is  about  to  be  sold  at  auction.  She  says  so  in  the  letter, 
written  in  the  same  hand  that  we  used  to  write  together  when  we  sat  side  by 
side  on  the  wooden  bench  at  school.  She  says  that  the  poorhouse  will  soon  be 
her  home,  but  that  there  is  One  coming  round  soon  who  will  settle  all  things. 
She  means,  Susan  —  Well,  you  know  who  it  is  that  soon  conies  round  and 
settles  all  things  when  a  person  passes  the  shadow  of  seventy  years.  I  am  able 
to  go,  Susan,  and  I  must  go.  Somehow  I  can  feel  invisible  hands  pushing  me 
like,  as  of  the  old  folk,  and  I  have  dreamed  twice  of  the  last  song  of  the  robin. 

"What  was  that?  Well,  well,  the  robins  used  to  sing  their  last  songs  in  the 
Indian-summer  weather,  before  they  went  to  their  covers  in  the  deep  woods  for 
the  long  winter.  It  was  peculiarsome  like.  It  was  when  the  apples  and  leaves 
were  falling,  leaving  bare  the  nests  in  the  trees ;  after  the  wild-geese  had  flown 
over,  and  the  partridges  had  begun  to  fly.  I  Ve  heard  'em  many  a  time. 
I  would  like  to  hear  them  once  more,  as  I  used  to  hear  them  among  the  red 
trees  by  the  old  cranberry  meadows.  You  may  think  me  queer,  Susan,  and 
haunted  like ;  but  I  long  to  see  that  old  slanting  roof  just  once  more,  and  my 
twin  sister,  who  was  rocked  in  the  same  cradle  with  me,  and  is  now  in  sorrow, 
and  to  hear  that  last  song  of  the  robin.  It  seems  as  though  at  times  I  could 
hear  that  now." 

He  listened.     There  was  a  murmur  of  the  wind  in  the  cottonwood-trees. 

"It  is  comin' Thanksgiving,  Susan.  It  makes  me  think  of  the  folks  and 
times  that  are  gone ;  of  the  succotash,  pandowdy,  and  puddings,  and  pumpkin 
pies.  There  never  was  no  such  days  anywhere  like  those,  and  my  hungry  heart 
aches  to  spend  one  more  Thanksgiving  with  my  sister  Susan.  The  last  one 
I  spent  there  was  sort  of  queer.  The  old  minister  he  ate  of  all  the  dishes  in  the 
kitchen  before  the  table  was  set,  and  then  there  were  so  many  of  them  that  it 
made  him  heavy  like,  and  he  fell  asleep  saying  grace,  and  we  sat  there  feeling 
awkward  like,  and  the  victuals  all  got  cold.  Oh,  how  I  would  like  to  talk  over 
those  old  times  with  Susan,  my  old  sister  Susan  ! 

"And,  Susan,  my  little  granddaughter,  I  hid  some  letters  behind  a  board  in 
the  haunted  garret  under  the  candle-poles,  and  there  's  going  to  be  a  vendue, 
and  I  want  to  see  them  once  again.  That  was  more  than  fifty  years  ago. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  23 

"  Haunted  garret?  Such  a  place  seems  queer  to  you,  does  it,  Susan?  We 
have  no  haunted  garrets  here  out  West.  All  the  old  houses  and  farms  in  the 
Cape  towns  had  their  ghost-stories,  and  a  family  couldn't  have  amounted  to 
much  who  had  n't  been  followed  by  a  ghost  sometime." 

It  was  near  sunset.  Like  a  high  arch  of  glory  rose  the  red  light  in  the 
western  air,  —  liquid  rubies  and  gold.  Against  the  sunset  stood  the  black  out- 
lines of  some  Lombardy  poplars  and  cottonwood-trees,  and  under  the  trees 
were  three  graves. 

The  old  man's  face  turned  towards  the  graves.  He  sat  musing  for  a  time 
in  deep  thought.  The  wind  rippled  through  the  faded  leaves,  and  scattered 
them  about  the  graves. 

"  Susan  !  " 

"Well,  grandpa?" 

"  Susan !  " 

"Yes,  I  hear.     What  is  it?    Grandpa,  I  was  thinking  of  the  haunted  garret." 

"  Your  grandmother  and  I  brought  those  trees  here.  They  were  twigs  then, 
and  she  was  a  bride.  I  brought  her  here  some  years  after  I  took  my  claim. 
Now  her  grave  is  there,  and  the  graves  of  two  of  our  own  little  ones.  I  shall 
come  back  again.  You  and  my  sister  Susan  are  all  that  is  left  me  now, — just 
old  Susan  and  young  Susan.  S/ie  needs  me.  He  will  take  care  of  you.  If  I  live 
a  week,  I  am  going  to  rocky  old  New  England  once  more.  I  hear  voices  calling 
me  sometimes,  and  then  there  drifts  into  the  air  that  last  song  of  the  robin, 
peculiarsome  like." 

"  What  were  the  letters  you  hid  behind  the  board,  grandpa?" 

"  In  the  haunted  garret?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  may  tell  you  sometime.  It  is  a  long  story.  It  was  in  the  garret  where 
I  once  saw  the  ghost  of  old  Rachel,  who  ground  red  peppers  with  a  calash  over 
her  head.  They  used  to  hear  her  wandering  about  at  night  in  the  herb-room, 
pounding,  pounding,  pounding  with  a  pestle.  What  times  those  were !  " 

"  I,  too,  would  like  to  see  the  old  house,  and  my  great-aunt,  and  eat 
a  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  some  of  the  good  old  families.  What  do  you  say, 
grandpa?  " 

"You  would?  Well,  you  may  go  too.  You  '11  hear  them,  all  those  ghost- 
stories  and  wonder-tales,  right  where  they  happened." 

The  girl's  face  brightened  up  with  pleasure,  followed  by  a  doubtful  shadow, 
as  of  ghostly  thoughts.  She  was  still  thinking  of  the  haunted  garret. 

The  old  man  sat  dreaming  again.     He  at  last  said,  "  Susan  !  " 


24  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE  CITY. 

"Yes." 

"Susan!  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  listening." 

"  I  have  a  secret  for  you." 

"Yes?     Let  me  hear." 

"  We  will  not  let  the  folks  know  that  we  are  coming.  We  will  meet  'cm  as 
strangers  like.  Old  Susan  will  not  know  me  —  likely  not.  Not  know  me  ?  and 
we  were  born  on  the  same  day  and  rocked  in  the  same  cradle.  It  takes  two  to 
be  happy  always,  and  I  used  to  be  happy  with  her." 

The  girl  sat  thinking. 

"  Grandpa ! " 

But  the  old  man's  mind  was  in  New  England  now.  He  was  listening  in 
dreams  to  his  sister's  voice,  and  perhaps  the  last  song  of  the  robin. 

"  Grandpa !  " 

"  Yes,  Susan." 

"  Why  could  we  not  bring  her  back  with  us?  " 

r"  The  old  well  is  there,  and  the  walls  and  the  rooms  where  the  folks  all  were 
married  and  died.  We  could  not  bring  her  back.  There  are  some  things  that 
money  cannot  do.  We  might  bring  her  body  back;  only  that,  Susan." 

"  But  those  things  are  to  be  sold?" 

"  Yes;  but  they  are  there." 

"  And  we  will  be  there  too,  on  Thanksgiving  Day." 

"Yes;  under  the  old  roof  on  which  I  used  to  hear  the  rain  fall  in  the  warm 
summer  eves." 

The  old  man's  face  contracted  and  turned  away.     He  was  crying. 

"  I  have  not  cried  before  for  years,  Susan.  Sing  me  that  old  song  that  your 
mother  used  to  sing  when  you  was  a  baby.  They  called  it  '  Ben  Bolt.'  " 

A  piano  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  over  it  soon  floated  the  words 
of  the  haunting  song: 

"  Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt, 
Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown  ?  " 

At  the  words, 

"  In  the  old  church-yard  by  the  orchard,  Ben  Bolt, 
In  the  valley  so  sweet  and  so  low," 

the  old  man  bent  over  his  cane,  and  great  tears  again  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"I  used  to  sing,  Susan,  and  play  the  violin  in  the  old  house  at  home.  Father 
made  me  promise  not  to  take  that  with  me.  He  said  it  would  hinder  me.  He 
meant  well." 


THE  LAST  SONG   OF  THE  ROBIN.  25 

Susan  sang: 

"  But  of  all  the  boys  that  were  schoolmates  then, 
There  is  left  but  you  and  me." 

Then  there  fell  a  silence,  and  the  western  twilight  deepened,  and  the  walls  of 
the  sun  seemed  melting  down. 

"Thank  you,  my  girl.  That  reminds  me  of  the  old  times  and  the  last  song 
of  the  robin." 

They  sat  in  silence,  save  that  the  west  winds  rustled  amid  the  withering  leaves 
of  the  old  cottonwoods. 

One  cool  day  in  September  Susan  alighted  from  her  horse  after  a  long  ride 
over  the  prairie.  She  was  met  at  the  door  by  her  grandfather. 

"  I  've  brought  you  another  letter  from  the  old  home,"  she  said.  "  It  is  in 
aunt's  hand,  and  I  think  that  she  is  in  very  great  trouble.  See  !  it  is  blotted." 

The  old  man  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  held  the  letter  close  to  his  eyes. 
"  Yes,  she  is  in  trouble,  you  may  depend.  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  Her  hand 
shook  when  she  wrote  that.  Let  me  open  it." 

y^"He  sat  down  on  the    rude   piazza  and   read   the  letter,   rocking  at  times 
nervously. 

"Yes,  she  is  in  deep  trouble,  sure  enough,  Susan.  We  must  go.  I  have  n't 
done  just  right,  Susan,  by  your  aunt  ;  I  have  n't,  now.  When  I  was  young,  I 
used  to  climb  trees,  and  so  hide  from  her  and  leave  her,  and  she  used  to  cry. 
I  can  see  her  now.  I  do  feel  as  though  I  had  been  climbing  a  tree  all  of  my 
life  and  hiding  and  leaving  her.  It  did  n't  add  to  the  stature  of  Zaccheus  to 
climb  a  tree,  but  it  did  add  to  his  reputation.  So  it  is  with  me,  Susan.  I  've 
gained  some  property  by  immigrating  here  to  the  prairies,  but  I  am  Zaccheus 
still,  and  I  hear  a  voice  calling  me  to  come  down.  That 's  the  way  we  used  to 
talk  in  the  old  New  England  times,  in  figures  like,  when  I  thought  the  tree-tops 
reached  clear  up  to  the  sky." 

"  What  does  aunt  write,  grandpa?  " 

"  The  old  place  is  going  to  be  sold  by  vendue,  and  the  debts  will  take 
all  — all." 

"  What  is  a  vendue?  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  like  this.  When  property  people  lose  almost  all  they  have,  and 
can't  pay  their  mortgages,  then  comes  the  sheriff,  and  after  him  a  man  whom 
we  call  an  auctioneer,  and  the  auctioneer  cries  '  Going,  going,  gone,'  and  when 
he  gets  through  there  's  not  so  much  as  a  birch  broom  left." 

The  old  man  rocked  uneasily. 


26  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  It  's  my  fault,  Susan.  I  want  to  tell  you,  though  I  do  it  to  my  shame, 
what  a  woman  your  old  aunt  is.  She  always  put  a  person's  feeling  above 
money.  You  see,  it  was  this  way :  I  had  a  fever  to  go  West,  and  to  marry,  and 
Susan  she  wanted  to  marry  a  young  farmer  who  owned  an  old  Cape  farm.  But 
one  of  us  had  to  stay  with  the  folks.  She  was  tender-hearted,  Susan  was,  and 
she  used  to  love  me  more  than  her  own  life,  —  she  always  loved  others  more  than 
herself,  —  and  one  day,  under  the  apple-trees,  she  said  to  me,  '  Martin,'  said 
she,  '  you  may  go  West,  and  I  '11  live  with  father  and  mother.'  When  I  came  to 
be  propounded  for  the  Church,  my  conscience  troubled  me  so  that  I  made  a 
covenant  with  myself  that  I  would  always  be  true  to  rny  twin  sister  Susan.  And 
I  nailed  that  covenant  behind  a  board  in  the  garret.  And  now  I  am  going  back 
to  find  it,  and  to  keep  it.  Just  hear  this  letter.  She  says :  — 

" '  Mother's  long  sickness  caused  the  mortgage,  and  the  interest  on  it  grew. 
Now  they  are  going  to  sell  the  old  place  at  vendue,  and  I  '11  have  to  go  to  the 
poorhouse,  or  else  live  on  the  church,  which  is  poor.  Even  my  Thanksgiving 
turkeys  will  be  sold.' 

"  Did  you  hear  that,  Susan?  I  remember  how  we  used  to  go  together  hunt- 
ing turkeys'  nests  when  we  were  young.  A  turkey  is  a  sly  bird,  and  hides  her  nest, 
and  always  goes  an  opposite  way  when  she  starts  for  her  nest.  How  we  used 
to  follow  the  turkeys  slyly  amid  the  dews,  wild  roses,  and  laurels,  so  as  to  find 
their  nests  !  And  now  even  her  turkeys  are  to  be  sold  !  Susan,  I  feel  as  though 
I  had  n't  done  as  I  ought  to.  I  must  go  back  East,  and  I  will  do  the  right 
thing  in  the  end.  I  will  keep  the  covenant.  It  was  Susan  that  gave  me  a 
chance  in  life.  I  can  hear  the  old  folks  that  are  dead  callin',  '  Come  home, 
come  home ;  '  seems  as  though  I  could." 

"  Grandfather,  have  you  any  spare  money?  " 

"  What  makes  you  ask  that,  child?  " 

"  Could  n't  you  buy  the  old  place  and  give  it  to  her?  " 

"  To  Susan?  To  Susan  ?  Why,  bless  your  heart,  that 's  just  what  I  Ve  just  been 
thinking!  If  I  ought  to  —  and  a  man  ought  to  do  what  he  ought,  or  he'll  feel 
just  as  he  had  n't  ought  to,  and  I  feel  that  way  now.  No,  Susan,  none  of  those 
auction-attending  folks  shall  eat  my  sister  Susan's  turkeys  this  year.  We  '11  get 
ready  and  go.  You  never  saw  the  sea,  did  you?" 

"  No  ;  nor  old  houses  with  ghost-rooms.     It  all  seems  like  a  story." 

"  Nor  rocks,  nor  walls,  nor  great  apple-orchards,  nor  woods  of  old  oak-trees?  " 

"  No,  nor  a  Thanksgiving  —  a  real  true  one,  grandpa." 

"  Well,  child,  you  shall  see  a  real  old  New  England  Thanksgiving  this  year, 
and  I  think  it  will  be  one  well  worth  seeing.  We  '11  roast  those  turkeys  our- 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  29 

selves.  They're  saying  '  quit,  quit'  to  the  mortgage  now.  I'm  going  to  keep 
my  covenant.  It  makes  me  happy  to  think  of  it.  But,  as  I  said,  we  will  not 
let  them  know  that  we  are  coming.  And,  Susan,  Susan,  you  maybe  will  hear 
that  last  song  of  the  robin." 

The  old  man  paced  the  piazza,  and  hummed,  in  a  broken  voice, — 

•'  How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view . 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  wildwood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ! 


y — 

r   <(I 


used  to  know  the  man  that  made  that  song,"  he  said.  "  He  was  a  son  of 
a  Revolutionary  soldier  who  lived  at  Scituate.  He  went  to  live  in  New  York. 
Strange  that  people  will  go  to  live  so  far  away !  I  used  to  hear  the  boys  sing  it 
during  the  war,"  he  added,  absently,  "when  they  would  get  Thanksgiving  boxes 
from  home.  Seems  as  though  I  could  hear  it  now  in  the  air:  there  are  some 
songs  that  haunt  one's  heart,  Susan :  it  seems  as  though  I  could  hear  it  far 
away.  Listen !  " 

He  listened.  The  prairie  air  was  still.  He  heard  the  song,  but  Susan  —  she 
did  not  hear.  The  wind  rippled  through  the  dry  leaves  of  the  cottonwoods 
over  the  three  graves. 

There  are  probably  no  roads  in  our  country  that  are  so  legend-haunted  as 
those  between  Boston  and  Plymouth.  The  making  of  those  roads  by  the 
Massachusetts  and  Plymouth  Bay  colonies  was  the  first  map  of  the  nation.  The 
men  who  built  them,  and  guarded  them  by  heavy  stone  walls,  were  the  descend- 
ants of  some  of  the  best  families  of  England,  whose  soul-training  had  led  them 
to  place  principle  above  wealth,  pleasure,  or  fame.  On  their  simple  rural  farms 
they  lived,  attended  the  church  and  the  folkmote,  as  the  town  meeting  may  be 
called,  and  they  made  the  latter  the  pattern  of  all  future  republics. 

Their  farms,  with  the  gray  stone  walls,  cool  wells,  and  great  elms,  retaining 
their  names,  still  remain.  The  purple  swallows  come  to  them  as  of  old  in  the 
spring-time,  and  the  ospreys,  or  fishing-hawks,  drift  over  at  noon,  wheeling  in 
the  sun.  The  partridge  and  quail  may  still  be  found  in  the  woodlands  and 
woodland  pastures,  and  a  few  woodpeckers  may  still  be  heard  tapping  the  trees. 

The  byways  in  their  seclusion  are  even  more  poetic  than  the  main  highways. 
The  wild  grape  and  clematis  there  cover  the  sinking  walls.  The  ancient 
graveyards  are  there,  and  their  slate  stones,  with  their  curious  death's-heads  and 
virtuous  poetry,  still  may  be  seen  zigzagging  as  it  were  among  the  bright 
sumachs.  The  slanting  roofs  are  covered  with  moss,  and  the  great  barn  doors 
open  to  the  sea. 


30  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

It  was  down  this  way  that  the  old  man  Martin  Marlowe  and  his  grand- 
daughter rode  in  one  of  the  last  stage-coaches  that  ever  passed  down  the 
winding  roads  by  the  sea,  —  past  the  homes  of  the  two  Presidents  Adams,  past 
the  church  of  the  eloquent  Henry  Ware,  past  the  old  Scituate  farm,  where 
Woodworth  lived,  who  wrote  "  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  to  a  once  famous  but 
now  forgotten  neighborhood  on  the  North  River,  where  a  thousand  ships  had 
been  built,  and  among  them  the  one  which  first  entered  the  Columbia  River  of 
Oregon,  and  that  gave  the  river  its  name.  The  old  Winslow  place  was  near,  as 
were  the  green  farms  on  the  Marshfield  meadows,  where  Daniel  Webster  came 
to  live,  and  the  Winslow  reservation,  where  live  the  last  of  the  Wampanoags. 

The  old  man  seemed  dwelling  in  the  past  as  the  stage  rattled  along. 

"  There  are  not  many  of  them  left  now,"  he  said  to  Susan.  "  How  I  shall 
miss  seeing  my  old  friends !  All  that  a  man  can  have  in  this  world  is  his  friends, 
and  when  they  go  his  world  is  gone." 

He  looked  out  on  the  great  elms,  which  were  flaming  with  color,  and  drop- 
ping their  leaves  in  golden  showers.  The  weather  was  warm,  and  the  air  had  a 
swampy  smell. 

The  old  man  began  to  tell  the  legends  of  the  old  houses  and  places  as  they 
passed  along. 

"  Susan,  there  's  where  old  Parson  White  used  to  live  in  the  Indian  days. 
His  house  stood  in  the  meadow  ;  there 's  the  chimney  there  yet  —  see?  —  down 
by  the  alder-bushes.  He  preached  nigh  on  to  seventy  year,  and  he  lived  to  be 
ninety.  He  preached  to  the  Indians  in  Eliot's  time,  when  old  Waban  was 
living.  One  day  a  good  Indian  came  to  him,  as  I  've  hearn  the  old  folks  tell,  and 
said  to  him,  '  Matthew  —  Mark —  Luke  —  John  —  Jonah.'  And  the  tall  parson 
talked  to  him  about  his  soul  and  redemption  and  heaven,  and  then  gave  him  a 
mug  of  cider  to  encourage  him  in  his  inquiries.  It  did.  He  came  again,  and 
the  minister  was  busy  writing  one  of  his  long  sermons  that  turned  the  hour- 
glass twice.  '  Matthew  —  Mark  —  Luke  —  John  — Jonah,'  said  the  Indian.  But 
the  parson's  mind  was  in  the  skies  now.  So  the  poor  Indian  repeated  over  the 
Scripture  names  again ;  but  the  parson's  mind  was  absent,  thinking,  —  Parson 
White  was  great  on  thinking.  Then  the  Indian  pounded  with  his  walking-stick, 
making  a  great  noise  after  each  name,  and  especially  after  '  Jonah.'  That 
brought  the  old  parson  down  from  his  Jacob's  ladder.  'What  do  you  mean?' 
he  shouted,  rising  up  like  a  steeple.  'Cider!'  said  the  Indian,  and  the  poor 
parson  dropped  his  face.  He  was  discouraged,  Susan." 

The  stage  stopped  here  and  there  at  the  country  stores,  about  whose  doors 
hung  woollens  for  winter  wear,  and  on  the  wooden  steps  of  which  were  barrels 
of  apples,  onions,  and  potatoes. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  31 

One  of  the  saddest  sights  on  a  New  England  byway  is  a  dead  church,  with 
its  broken  tower  and  silent  bell,  in  some  neighborhood  where  the  "  boys  "  have 
nearly  all  gone  to  the  cities  and  the  West.  The  coach  rolled  by  such  a  one, 
with  its  briery  graveyard  and  broken  wall.  The  old  man  saw  it,  and  his  mem- 
ory of  boyhood  legends  revived  again. 

"Susan  —  Susan  —  Parson  White  preached  his  last  sermon  there.  It  is 
boarded  up  now.  See  the  old  bell  that  used  to  make  the  hills  echo !  Parson 
White  had  gone  eighty  then ;  almost  ninety  he  must  have  been. 

"  It  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  balm-breathing  June,  with  the  wild  roses 
blooming,  and  the  orioles  singing,  and  the  bobolinks  toppling  in  the  clover.  The 
windows  were  open,  and  the  shadows  of  the  elms  fell  across  them.  The  com- 
munion-table was  spread  in  front  of  the  tall  pulpit,  which  was  hung  with  silk 
curtains  under  the  sounding-board.  Parson  White,  he  went  up  the  pulpit  stairs 
and  began  to  pray.  The  old  folks  used  to  say  that  they  never  heard  such  a 
prayer  as  that.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  into  heaven.  Suddenly  he  stopped. 
There  was  a  long  silence.  The  church  was  so  still  you  might  have  heard  the 
chippering  of  the  wrens  in  the  old  trees.  He  said  then :  '  The  horsemen  of 
Israel,  and  the  chariots  thereof.'  Then  he  was  silent  again,  and  then  he  seemed 
talking  to  himself,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  '  My  willing  soul  would  stay 
In  such  a  frame  as  this, 
And  sit  and  sing  herself  away 
To  everlasting  bliss.' 

He  did  not  move  again.  Never.  He  lay  there  on  the  pulpit,  his  face  encircled 
in  the  arms  of  his  long  black  robe,  and  resting  on  the  Bible.  The  deacons  went 
up  to  him  softly.  He  was  dead." 

The  old  man  dropped  his  head  in  silence  for  a  time.  The  coach  rolled  on 
its  dusty  way  over  the  red  and  russet  leaves  that  were  falling  in  the  sun. 

Little  Susan  was  dreaming  too,—  of  old  Susan  and  haunted  rooms  and 
the  fairy-like  day  of  Thanksgiving. 

"  Susan  —  Susan  —  we  are  near  the  old  farm,"  said  the  old  man,  starting. 
"There  's  the  gable  just  over  the  savin-trees, —  there,  with  the  woodbine  on  it, 
where  the  martin-boxes  used  to  be.  Many 's  the  time  I  Ve  looked  out  of  that 
window.  I  was  young  then,  Susan  ;  we  do  not  live  twice  in  this  world." 

A  strange  sound  fell  on  the  Western  girl's  ears. 

"  Going!  going!  How  much  am  I  offered  for  the  old  family  cradle?  Fifty 
cents?  Fifty  cents  am  I  offered  for  the  old  family  cradle?  Fifty  cents  for  this 
old  oak  cradle?  One  generation  has  slept  in  it,  and  it  is  good  for  another. 
Fifty  cents  am  I  offered  ?  " 


32  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY, 

The  old  man  listened  a  moment,  then  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  coach-door, 
and  said  to  the  driver:  "Hurry  up  !  I  want  to  bid  on  tkat  cradle'"1 

The  driver  cracked  his  whip.  The  coach  rolled  by  a  thin  grove  of  trees  that 
partly  hid  the  yard  from  the  way,  and  a  strange  scene  was  brought  to  view. 
A  crowd  of  people,  young  and  old,  were  gathered  around  an  old  gray  farm- 
house with  an  open  door.  There  were  vehicles  of  almost  all  kinds  about  the 
place,  with  the  horses  hitched  to  the  trees.  In  the  yard  in  front  of  the  door 
was  the  furniture  of  the  house,  and  on  a  high  chair  stood  the  tall  form  of 
a  country  auctioneer,  crying  the  articles  for  sale  in  the  singsong  tone  of  the 
old  travelling  preachers,  —  a  tone  that  must  be  first  heard  to  be  imitated. 

In  the  doorway,  close  by  a  great  stone  step,  sat  an  old  woman  in  a  white 
cap  and  calico  dress,  and  a  handkerchief  crossed  over  her  breast.  She  was 
watching  the  sale.  Her  face  was  beautiful  in  its  serenity,  hope,  and  trust. 
Faith  was  written  in  it.  She  seemed  to  have  a  soul  that  had  a  life  above  all 
changes. 

"  Is  that  aunt?  "  said  Susan. 

"  My  girl,  I  do  not  know.     It  looks  like  her.     Does  she  look  like  me?" 

The  stage  stopped.  The  driver  called  to  the  auctioneer:  "Hold  on! 
Here 's  a  man  that  wants  to  bid  on  that  cradle." 

The  auctioneer  ceased  his  singsong,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  on  the  old 
man  and  the  girl  alighting  from  the  stage.  No  one  knew  them. 

"  Now  we  are  all  ready,"  began  the  auctioneer  again.  "  The  old  oak 
cradle.  How  much  am  I  offered  for  the  old  oak  cradle?  Fifty  cents  am 
I  offered  for  the  oak  cradle?  Some  good  people  have  been  rocked  in  this  old 
cradle,  and  it  is  good  enough  yet.  Fifty  cents.  Seventy-five?  Yes,  the  old 
gentleman  who  has  just  arrived  bids  seventy-five.  Eighty  —  do  I  hear  it?  Eighty 
now  for  the  old  oak  cradle?  There  were  many  prayers  made  over  that  old 
oak  cradle.  S-e-v-e-n-t-ee-five !  Eighty  —  do  I  hear  it?  Are  you  all  done? 
S-e-v-e-n-t-ee-five !  Going,  going,  going!  Once,  do  I  hear  the  eighty?  Twice, 
do  I  hear  the  eighty?  Three  times  —  third  and  last  call  —  do  I  hear  the  eighty? 
Gone  —  to—  What  is  your  name,  stranger?" 

"  Cash,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  quivering  lip,  as  he  passed  through  the 
crowd,  followed  by  the  wondering  girl. 

"Sold  to  Cash,"  said  the  auctioneer.  "What  have  we  here?  The  little  oak- 
chair  for  the  child  at  the  table.  Are  you  all  ready  to  bid  for  the  little  oak  chair 
for  the  child  at  the  table?  It  is  as  old  as  the  family,  and  as  good  as  new.  Look 
at  it,  —  the  little  oak  chair  for  the  child  at  the  table,  —  how  much  am  I  offered? 
Here  is  another  —  two  of  them.  Plow  much  am  I  offered  for  them  both?" 


'•***  '  t  '    **£?  *« 

I'     *          -»A4i/t*/ 

js*^*^  4mX~ 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  35 

The  old  man  Marlowe  and  Susan  take  a  seat  on  the  great  stone  step,  close 
to  the  feet  of  the  serene  old  woman.  Marlowe  looks  into  her  face. 

Her  lip  quivered. 

"  You  bought  that  cradle,"  said  she.     "  Were  you  ever  here  before?  " 

"  Yes,  many  years  ago.     I  used  to  know  your  father." 

"  You  did  !  —  and  my  mother,  too?  " 

"Yes;  they  were  good  people." 

"  They  are  buried  over  there,  under  the  savin-bushes,"  said  the  old  woman. 
<l  I  was  rocked  in  that  there  cradle,  and  my  twin  brother,  who  went  out  West. 
I  wish  that  he  could  have  had  that  cradle.  1  think  of  him  all  the  time  of  late. 
He  and  a  little  granddaughter  are  all  that  's  left.  The  auctioneer  spoke  true 
-  he  did ;  there  's  been  many  a  prayer  made  over  that  cradle,  and  now  it  is 
gone  out  of  the  family.  I  've  prayed  that  it  might  not  be  so.  It  will  all  be 
right  by-and-by.  The  Lord  is  tedious,  but  He  's  sure.  I  almost  lose  my  faith 
sometimes,  and  I  can  hardly  keep  back  my  tears  now.  Why  did  you  come  here, 
stranger?  " 

"  To  spend  Thanksgiving.     I  used  to  live  in  this  town." 

"  Have  you  any  relations  here?  " 

.    "Yes,  a  sister.     I  came  to  visit  her,  and  I  want  to  buy  some  of  the  old  furni- 
ture ;   it  looks  so  natural." 

"  There  's  to  be  no  more  Thanksgivings  for  me  in  this  world.  Stranger,  it 
does  seem  rather  hard.  I  Ve  always  been  industrious,  and  have  done  my  best. 
Stranger,  it  is  hard  when  a  poor  lone  woman  like  me,  that  never  did  any  one 
harm,  can  neither  die  nor  live.  Did  you  ever  have  any  trouble,  stranger?  You 
have?  Then  you  do  feel  for  me,  don't  you  ?  The  Lord  forgive  me !  " 

The  voice  of  the  auctioneer  rang  out,  "  How  much  am  I  offered?" 

"  Fifty  cents,"  says  old  Marlowe,  looking  at  the  two  chairs  as  the  auctioneer 
held  one  up  in  either  hand. 

"  Fifty  cents  for  two  family  chairs  for  children  at  the  table.  Oak  —  good  as 
ever  —  fifty  cents!  Going,  going,  going,  at  fifty  cents.  Is  that  all?  Fifty 
cents?  Do  I  hear  sixty?  Sixty  —  do  I  hear  it?  Going,  going;  once  —  do  I 
hear  it?  Twice  —  do  I  hear  it?  Three  times  —  do  I  hear  it?  Are  you  all 
done?  Fifty  cents.  Sold  to  —  What  shall  I  call  you,  stranger?  " 

"  Cash,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Cash  again,"  said  the  auctioneer. 

The  old  woman  touches  Marlowe  on  the  shoulder:  "Have  you  any 
children?  " 

"  No,  my  good  woman.     Only  my  grandchild  here." 

"What  is  her  name?" 


36  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  Susan." 

"That  is  my  name,  stranger.  My  twin  brother  and  I  used  to  sit  in  those 
chairs.  I  wish  I  were  able  to  save  some  of  these  things  for  him.  It  is  hard, 
isn't  it,  stranger?  But  you  and  I  will  never  be  young  again.  The  withered 
stalk  never  blooms  any  more.  I  Ve  'most  got  through." 

She  looked  out  over  the  sunny  fields  in  the  last  glow  of  the  Indian-summer 
days. 

"  Stranger,  you  came  home  to  spend  Thanksgiving.  I  '11  have  my  next 
Thanksgiving  in  a  better  world  than  this.  I  did  hope  to  see  my  twin  brother 
once  more,  but  that  can  never  be.  The  sun  that  goes  down  will  find  me  a  bur- 
den to  the  world.  There's  the  old  clock;  they  're  going  to  sell  that,  too.  It 
struck  on  the  day  that  I  was  born,  and  at  all  the  weddings  and  funerals  and, 
Thanksgiving  days.  Are  you  going  to  buy  that,  too?  I  wish  you  would.  I 
have  a  good  feeling  for  you, — somehow  I 'm  drawn  towards  you.  I  feel  as. 
though  you  felt  for  me.  I  Ve  wound  that  clock  myself  nigh  on  to  sixty  years." 

"  The  old  eight-day  clock  comes  next.  Many  a  day  that  clock  has  seen,, 
and  it  is  good  yet.  How  much  am  I  offered  for  the  old  family  clock?  Start 
it,  some  one.  I  '11  give  five  dollars  for  it  myself." 

"  Six,"  said  the  old  man  on  the  door-step. 

"Are  you  going  to  buy  that,  too?"  said  old  Susan.  "  I 'm  proper  glad  to 
hear  ye  bid  on  that.  How  many  times  I 've  heard  it  strike  one  at  the  family 
funerals,  and  then  seen  the  minister  rise  beside  the  coffin  and  say,  '  Man  that 
is  born  of  a  woman  is  of  few  days  and  full  of  trouble.'  I  used  to  hear  it  strike 
one  at  night,  when  I  watched  with  my  twin  brother  Martin,  who  went  West,  in 
the  weeks  and  weeks  when  he  laid  between  life  and  death  with  the  typhus  fever. 
I  wish  that  he  could  be  here  to-day. 

"  Stranger,  do  you  know  of  what  I  've  been  thinkin'?  Of  course  you  don't. 
I  've  just  been  wishing  like,  dreaming  like,  that  brother  Martin  would  come  here,. 
as  you  have  come,  and  would  bid  off  the  old  farm,  and  that  I  might  die  here  at 
last  in  peace  —  where  they  all  died  I've  been  dreamin'  just  that  dream.  It 
comes  to  me.  Oh,  what  a  Thanksgiving  this  old  heart  would  have,  could  such 
a  dream  as  that  come  true !  " 

"  Six  dollars  I  am  offered.  Six,  six,  six.  Going,  going,  going.  Do  I  hear 
seven  ?  " 

"  Seven,"  bid  a  neighbor. 

"Seven  —  do  I  hear  ten?  Seven  dollars  am  I  offered.  Yes,  once  eight,, 
and  nine.  Do  I  hear  ten?  Ten,  ten,  ten  —  do  I  hear  it?  " 

"  Ten,"  said  the  old  man  on  the  step. 

"  Ten  I  am  offered.     Do  I  hear  the  twelve  ?     Ten,  ten,  ten.     Going,  going, 


THE  LAST  SONG   OF  THE  ROBIN.  37 

going,  at  ten  dollars.  Once  —  do  I  hear  it?  Twice  —  do  I  hear  it  ?  Third 
and  last  call.  Going  at  ten  dollars,  to —  " 

"  Cash,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Stranger,"  said  the  auctioneer,  "  what  shall  we  do  with  these  things  that 
you  have  bought  ?  " 

The  crowd  gathered  densely  about  the  door-step  to  hear  the  reply. 

"  You  may  leave  them  right  where  they  are.     I  have  a  good  use  for  them." 

The  parlor  looking-glass  was  next  offered.  The  old  man  on  the  step  bought 
that  also.  Then  the  old  empty  parrot-cage,  and  he  bought  that. 

"  I  'm  glad  that  you  have  bought  the  lookin'-glass,"  said  old  Susan.  "  What 
if  all  the  faces  that  have  looked  into  it  could  appear  again  !  What  if  I  could  see 
there  my  father  and  mother  young  again  —  and  Martin  !  What  does  make  me 
think  so  much  of  Martin  of  late  ?  Seems  as  though  sometimes  he  was  hoverin' 
around  me.  There,  they  are  going  to  sell  the  Concord  musket  and  the  dinner- 
horn  !  How  many  times  I  fve  blown  that  old  horn  just  at  twelve  o'clock,  to  call 
the  folks  to  dinner !  Martin  learned  me  how  to  blow  it  when  he  was  a  boy.  We 
used  to  blow  a  sea-shell  at  first." 

The  sale  continued  without  any  regard  to  the  order  of  the  value  of  the 
articles,  —  the  parlor  furniture,  old  school-books  and  almanacs,  china  and  pewter 
mugs.  The  old  man  on  the  step  bought  them  all. 

Mysterious  looks  began  to  pass  from  one  to  another  of  the  country  folks. 
Why  was  the  quiet  old  man  buying  all  those  things?  What  was  he  going  to 
<lo  with  them?  Would  he  buy  the  house  and  farm?  Had  he  any  interest  in 
the  poor  old  woman  who  was  watching  him  now  with  straining  nerves  and 
intense  interest? 

After  the  sale  of  the  furniture  the  auctioneer  said:  "We  will  next  offer  the 
house  and  farm.  The  old  woman  will  show  you  the  deeds.  There  is  no 
encumbrance  on  the  property.  We  will  stop  the  sale  for  an  hour.  Then  you 
-will  be  ready  for  the  finish.  Stranger,  where  shall  we  put  all  these  things  that 
you  have  been  buying?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  later  ;  I  'm  not  ready  to  answer  yet.  Never  mind  me  —  don't 
crowd  around  me,  friends.  I  'm  an  honest  man.  Go  and  take  your  lunches 
under  the  trees." 

There  was  a  jingle  of  bells  on  the  clear  bright  air.  The  bread-cart  man  was 
coming.  The  people  bought  gingerbread  and  bunns,  and  lounged  under  the 
cool  trees  in  a  spot  of  ground  where  stood  a  large  and  a  small  grindstone,  and 
overhead  hung  scythes  and  corn-knives.  There  was  a  buzzing  of  voices,  and 
talking  in  a  suppressed  tone,  and  great  inquiry  about  the  stranger  who  simply 
called  himself"  Cash,"  and  who  was  purchasing  everything. 


38  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

The  old  woman  now  tried  to  find  out  the  secret  of  the  stranger's  interest  in 
these  things. 

"  You  and  I  must  be  about  the  same  age,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  the  same  suns  have  lighted  us  both.  They 
used  to  tell  a  ghost  story  about  the  chambers  here.  My  girl  has  often  asked 
me  about  them.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  strange  upstairs?  " 

"No;  but  I  found,  just  before  the  auction,  some  papers  hidden  behind  a 
'board.  They  read  mighty  curious,  and  were  signed  with  what  the  writing  said 
was  blood." 

"  You  don't  say?  "  said  the  old  man,  starting.     "  What  were  they?  " 

"  It  was  a  covenant  that  some  one  had  made  with  the  Lord.  I  think  that  it 
was  Martin's.  Seemed  as  though  his  father  asked  him  to  make  it.  It  promised 
many  things.  There  was  one  thing  in  it  that  made  me  write  to  him.  Whoever 
made  it  promised  to  be  faithful  to  me.  The  signature  was  faded.  It  was  made 
on  the  day  that  the  writer  was  propounded  for  church." 

Martin  Marlowe's  face  fell.  Had  he  been  true  to  that  covenant  that  he 
remembered  so  vividly? 

"Say,  stranger,"  said  old  Susan,  "I  hope  you  will  excuse  me;  but  what 
may  your  name  be?  " 

"  Never  mind  my  family  history  now.  I  will  tell  you  later  more  about 
myself.  What  was  the  story  about  the  haunted  chamber?  Tell  it  to  my  girl 
here." 

"  About  Rachel,  who  raised  red  peppers,  and  used  to  appear  with  a  calash 
over  her  head?  " 

"  Yes.  That  ghost  was  the  terror  of  all  the  children  and  hired  people. 
Rachel  was  an  old  maiden  lady.  She  used  to  have  charge  of  the  balm  bed,  the 
sage  bed,  and  the  pepper  bed,  and  the  dried  apples  and  red  peppers,  and  sold 
them  to  get  money  for  the  church  and  her  clothes.  She  ground  the  red  pep- 
pers in  the  garret,  and  to  keep  the  pepper  dust  from  burning  out  her  eyes,  she 
used  a  calash,  which  was  a  great  bonnet,  with  whalebone  ribs,  that  stood  up  from 
the  head  all  around  as  though  it  were  hung  on  the  air,  and  over  the  calash  she 
wore  a  long  green  veil.  She  put  over  her  body  a  long  white  night-gown ;  and 
when  we  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  garret  stairs  to  see  her  pound,  she  looked 
kind  of  awful  and  scary,  like  a  picture  in  the  old  '  Pilgrim's  Progress.'  When  I 
heard  that  she  had  come  back  to  haunt  the  old  herb-room  in  the  garret,  and  I 
pictured  in  my  mind  how  she  used  to  look,  it  fairly  made  my  flesh  creep.  Of 
all  ghosts  I  would  n't  have  liked  to  see  old  Rachel  with  her  calash  like  a 
shay's  top  and  her  pound,  pound,  pound.  She  used  to  punish  me  when 
I  was  a  boy  by  snapping  her  thumb  and  finger  on  the  top  of  my  head.  I 


THE  LAST  SONG   OF  THE  ROBIN.  41 

remember  it  all  as  though  it  were  yesterday.  I  once  went  up  to  the  herb-room 
to  get  some  — 

"  Not  herbs,  my  good  friend,"  said  Susan. 

"  No ;  some  preserves  or  cake.  They  used  to  keep  the  goodies  there,  and 
I  had  been  going  there  pretty  often  in  a  quiet  way,  when  I  felt,  just  as  I  was 
bending  over  the  marmalade-jar,  a  snap  on  the  top  of  my  head,  and  I  looked 
up  suddenly,  and  there  was  the  most  awful  sight  that  I  ever  saw,  —  old  Rachael 
herself,  in  her  white  nightgown,  calash,  and  all.  I  scooted  after  the  first  glance, 
and  rolled  over  and  over  down  the  first  flight  of  stairs,  and  leaped  down  the 
second.  No  barn  or  chimney  swift  could  have  gone  quicker.  I  did  n't  sleep 
much  for  a  long  time  after  that,  and  I  never  dared  to  tell  the  story,  because  I 
was  at  the  marmalade-jar  when  she  appeared.  I  never  told  it  to  anybody  until 
after  I  went  away. 

"  I  used  to  lay  awake  until  morning,  and  when  I  heard  the  wings  of  the 
swallows  in  the  chimney  my  heart  would  beat  like  a  trip-hammer,  for  I  thought 
it  was  old  Rachael  and  her  pepper-mill.  When  the  fowls  crowed  for  day  I 
would  feel  safe  again,  for  no  ghost  ever  could  appear  after  the  cock  crew  in  the 
morning,  so  the  old  folks  said.  Susan,  what  do  you  think  that  ghost  was?" 

"  Oh,  my  good  friend,  how  can  I  tell  it  now?  I  think  —  oh,  I  know  it  was 
poor  old  grandmother!  She  scared  Martin  once  in  that  way  to  keep  him  — 
oh,  how  can  I  say  it?  —  to  keep  him  from  getting  at  her  plum-cake." 

"  How  do  you  know?" 

"  She  told  me  so,  and  told  me  never  to  tell." 

The  two  looked  at  each  other. 

"  That  accounts  for  it.  I  always  thought  it  was  kind  o'  strange  that  they 
should  have  whalebone  calashes  in  another  world." 

"  Stranger,  how  familiar  you  seem  to  be  with  this  old  place,  the  swallows  in 
the  chimney  and  all !  You  say  you  used  to  know  our  folks.  Any  relation?  " 

"  I  used  to  work  for  your  father." 

"Did  ye?" 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  —  after  fifty  years. 

"  Somehow  I  almost  feel  related,"  said  old  Susan. 

The  shining  hour  of  noon  wa's  now  passed.     The  auctioneer  rang  his  bell. 

"Are  you  ready  for  the  sale  of  the  farm?  Thirty  acres  and  the  house  and 
buildings.  Clear  deed.  How  much  am  I  offered?  Some  one  start  the  farm. 
Been  in  the  same  family  one  hundred  and  thirty  years.  How  much  am  I 
offered?" 


42  ZIGZAG  JOURiVEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  Five  hundred  dollars,"  said  a  well-to-do-looking  farmer  named  Pool. 

"Five  hundred  dollars.  Do  I  hear  the  six?  Five  hundred  dollars  am  I 
offered.  Do  I  hear  the  six?  Five  hundred  dollars." 

"  Six,"  bid  another. 

"  Seven,"  another. 

"  Eight." 

"Nine." 

"Nine  hundred  dollars  I  am  offered.  Do  I  hear  the  thousand?  Nine  hun- 
dred dollars.  Nine,  nine,  nine.  Going,  going,  nine  hundred  dollars.  One 
thousand  —  do  I  hear  it?  Nine  hundred  dollars.  Are  you  all  done?  Going,, 
going  —  " 

"  One  thousand  dollars." 

The  voice  came  from  the  old  man  on  the  step.  Old  Susan  rocked  violently,, 
and  appeared  greatly  agitated.  The  people  gathered  in  a  close  mass  around 
the  door-step,  all  eyes  fixed  upon  the  venerable  stranger. 

"  One  thousand  dollars.  Do  I  hear  eleven  hundred?  One  thousand  dollars 
am  I  offered.  Going,  going,  going.  Once,  twice,  third  and  last  call,  going, 
going,  going,  for  one  thousand  dollars.  The  hammer  is  about  to  fall.  One 
th-o-u-s-a-n-d  dollars.  Sold." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  that  followed  the  fall  of  the  hammer. 

"  Gone,"  said  the  old  woman,  and  she  threw  her  apron  over  her  white  head 
and  bent  over,  adding:  "  I  am  homeless  now.  I  never  thought  to  see  a  day 
like  this." 

"What  is  to  be  done  with  these  things?"  asked  the  auctioneer. 

The  old  man  rises.     His  girl  stands  up  beside  him. 

"  Susan,"  said  he. 

Old  Susan  uncovered  her  pitiful  face. 

"  Susan,  what  will  you  have  done  with  these  things?  I  have  bought  them- 
for  you." 

Susan  stops  her  rocking.  She  looks  dazed.  Her  face  is  upturned,  and  her 
blue  eye  looks  piercingly  into  the  eye  of  the  tall  old  man. 

"  I  would  have  you  have  them.  You  do  pity  me,  don't  you?  It  will  do  me 
good  to  think  that  you  have  them.  You  have  spoken  to  me  kindly." 

"  The  furniture  shall  all  be  brought  back  into  the  house  again,"  says  the 
quiet  old  man.  "  The  cradle,  clock,  and  looking-glass  shall  all  be  placed 
where  they  were  before." 

"  To  whom  are  the  papers  to  be  made  out?  "  asks  the  auctioneer. 

"  My  good  friend,  we  shall  need  no  new  deeds.     The  old  ones  will  do.     I 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  43 

used  to  know  the  family  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  Susan's  father  and  mother  did 
much  for  me.  To-morrow  is  Thanksgiving,  and  I  shall  spend  it  here.  I'm 
going  to  be  good  to  Susan  for  the  old  folks'  sake." 

He  bends  over  old  Susan.  She  sits  like  one  dead.  He  takes  her  withered 
hand,  stoops  down  and  kisses  her,  and  says,  — 

"  I  '11  let  the  place  to  her." 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  air  that  Indian-summer  afternoon,  and  for  many 
minutes  the  silence  was  unbroken.  A  woodpecker  tapped  a  hollow  tree  at  lastr 
and  a  sea-bird  on  wide  wings  went  screaming  by. 

"Let  the  place  to  me?"  says  old  Susan.  "Stranger,  you  are  good,  like 
one  sent  forth  out  of  the  doors  of  heaven,  but  I  have  no  money.  I  must  be 
plain,  stranger.  I  have  no  money,  and  how  are  these  old  hands  to  earn  any? 
Look  at  them.  Their  work  is  done." 

She  bends  her  gray  head. 

"  Stranger,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you  in  private.  I  have  something  on 
my  soul,  and  it  troubles  me.  They  have  kept  back  a  part  of  the  price." 

"What?" 

"  The  neighbors,  some  of  them,  the  Brewster  boys,  they  've  driven  away  my 
Thanksgiving  turkeys." 

"  Why,  my  good  woman  ?  " 

"  So  that  the  auctioneer  should  not  sell  them.  The  neighbors  said  that  my 
Thanksgiving  turkeys  should  not  be  sold.  Now  that  was  kind  in  'em,  was  n't 
it?  But  it  was  n't  quite  right.  I  Ve  always  done  just  the  thing  that  I  thought 
to  be  right.  My  motto  has  been,  '  I  will  be  what  I  ought  to  be.'  I  'm  poor, 
stranger,  but,  except  the  turkeys,  my  conscience  is  clear.  My  folks  were  alt 
good  people,  as  you  know,  if  you  used  to  work  here  when  a  boy,  notwith- 
standing that  grandmother  used  to  keep  the  children  away  from  the  herb-room 
with  old  Rachel's  gown  and  calash.  Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  do?  The 
folks  here  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  were  to  tell  the  auctioneer;  they're  too  good  to 
me.  But  I  must  tell  now ;  I  must  be  honest,  stranger.  You  are  so  good  to  me. 
I  don't  understand  it.  It  is  all  a  wonderment;  but  the  Lord  will  make  it  plain. 
Seems  as  though  I  was  dreaming." 

She  looks  out  over  the  hills,  which  are  flaming  with  autumn  glows.  She 
starts. 

"  Stranger,  there  's  one  other  thing  that  I  want  to  tell  you.  There  's  another 
thing  that  I  Ve  kept  back.  But  that  is  honest.  My  twin  brother  Martin  had  a 
violin,  and  he  left  it  here.  I  Ve  felt  that  it  isn't  theirs;  it's  his.  He  used  to 
sing  in  the  church  over  there.  You  may  see  the  steeple  now.  And  he  used  to 
play  on  the  violin." 


44  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

There  was  a  new  movement  among  the  people  in  the  yard.  One  of  the 
neighbors  came  up  to  the  steps. 

"It's  too  bad,  Susan;  they've  found  those  turkeys.  The  dog  scented  'em 
out,  and  he  's  driving  'em  home.  It  is  too  bad ;  they  might  have  left  ye  a 
Thanksgiving  dinner." 

There  was  great  gobbling  in  the  hill-side  pasture.  A  flock  of  turkeys,  one 
of  which  was  white,  was  half  running  and  half  flying  towards  the  house,  followed 
by  the  auctioneer's  dog.  One  of  the  gobblers  had  lost  his  tail  feathers,  and  he 
flew  up  in  a  zigzag  way,  and  alighted  in  a  maple-tree.  Another  turkey  followed 
him,  flying  heavily  and  clumsily,  and  crying,  almost  like  a  human  voice,  "  Quit! 
quit !  " 

"  Stranger,"  said  old  Susan,  "  seems  's  though  that  turkey  spoke,  as  Balaam's 
turkey,  if  he  had  one,  might  have  done.  Stranger,  I  raised  them  turkeys  my- 
self, and  I  hoped  that  I  might  have  one  myself;  and  that  perhaps  —  I  dreamed 
of  it,  stranger  —  perhaps  my  twin  brother  Martin,  who  went  out  West,  might  be 
here,  and  that  we  might  have  one  of  them  for  Thanksgiving." 

"  I  '11  buy  the  turkeys  for  you." 

"You  —  well,  you  are  proper  good.  But  I  don't  understand  these  things. 
I  Ve  never  been  used  to  receiving  anything  from  strangers,  though  the  neighbors 
have  always  been  good  to  me.  They  tried  not  to  have  the  farm  sold,  but  it  was 
the  law.  Stranger,  it  had  to  be  —  it  was  the  law." 

The  auctioneer  mounted  the  bench  again,  rang  his  bell,  and  swung  his 
hammer. 

"There's  one  thing  we've  overlooked.  Hear,  all!  Here  are  the  things 
that  everybody  wants.  Turkeys  —  to-morrow  is  Thanksgiving.  A  fine  lot  of 
fat  turkeys,  and  a  white  one.  Just  look  at  that  fat  old  gobbler  up  in  that  tree  ! 
One  seldom  sees  a  finer  bird  than  that.  And  look  at  that  hen-turkey  — 

"  Quit !  quit !  "  exclaimed  the  beautiful  bird,  in  great  astonishment,  on 
seeing  all  eyes  turned  towards  her. 

"  That 's  the  mother  turkey,"  said  old  Susan.  "She  's  lost  her  family  before. 
She  is  a  cosset  turkey.  I  raised  her  in  the  chimney-corner.  She  is  used  to 
coming  into  the  house  to  be  fed." 

"How  much   am   I    offered  for  this  fine  lot  of  turkeys?     Just  a  dozen  of 
them.     Twelve  dollars.     I  am  offered  twelve  dollars.     Do  I  hear  the  thirteen? 
Twelve  dollars,  twelve  dollars.     Thirteen — thirteen  I  am  offered.     Thirteen  — 
fourteen.    Fifteen  —  do  I  hear  it?  Fourteen  dollars.  Going,  going,  going.    Once, 
do  I  hear  it?    Twice,  do  I  hear  it?    Third  and  last  call  —  f-o-u-r-t-e-e-n  dollars." 

He  lifted  his  hammer. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN.  45 

"  Fifteen." 

"  Fifteen  dollars  —  fifteen  I  am  offered.  Going,  going,  going,  for  fifteen 
dollars.  Are  you  all  done?  Going  for  fifteen  dollars  to  —  " 

"  MARTIN  MARLOWE,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  firm  voice. 

He  stood  up  and  uncovered  his  white  head.  Old  Susan's  form  dropped 
together  as  though  she  had  been  smitten.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  lap,  and 
sobbed  as  she  used  to  do  in  childhood. 

The  neighbors  gather  silently  around  the  door-step,  among  the  myrtles  and 
bouncing-bet  Some  are  whispering,  some  laughing,  and  a  few  are  crying. 

"  Susan,"  says  the  old  man,  "  get  me  my  violin." 

The  old  woman  sent  for  the  instrument,  and  the  old  man  saw  that  it  had 
not  been  wholly  out  of  use.  He  tuned  it,  and  lifted  it  into  the  air.  "  Susan,, 
we  used  to  sing  together  in  church,  over  there.  What  did  we  use  to  say  on 
Thanksgiving  days? 

"  I  remember,  neighbors.  I  'm  going  to  play  that  hymn.  My  voice  is 
almost  gone,  but  I  want  you  to  sing  it  with  me." 

He  lifts  the  bow.     "  Tune  —  '  Hamburg.' " 

The  music  floated  out  on  the  mellow  autumn  air,  the  violin  playing  as  in 
the  old  church  days.  Before  the  people  ran  the  river  to  the  sea.  The  air  was 
still ;  nature  seemed  listening. 

"God  is  the  Refuge  of  His  saints 

When  storms  of  sharp  distress  invade; 
Ere  we  can  offer  our  complaints, 
Behold  Him  present  with  His  aid. 

"  Let  mountains  from  their  seats  be  hurled 

Down  to  the  deep  and  buried  there, 
Convulsions  shake  the  solid  world, 
Our  faith  shall  never  yield  to  fear. 

"  Loud  may  the  troubled  ocean  roar, 
In  sacred  peace  our  souls  abide, 
While  every  nation,  every  shore, 

Trembles  and  dreads  the  swelling  tide. 

"  There  is  a  stream  whose  gentle  flow 

Supplies  the  city  of  our  God, 
Life,  love,  and  joy  still  gliding-  through, 
And  watering  our  divine  abode. 


46  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"That  sacred  stream,  thy  Holy  Word, 
Our  grief  allays,  our  fear  controls  ; 
Sweet  peace  thy  promises  afford, 

And  give  new  strength  to  fainting  souls. 

"Zion  enjoys  her  Monarch's  love, 

Secure  against  a  threatening  hour  ; 
Nor  can  her  firm  foundation  move, 
Built  on  His  truth,  and  armed  with  power." 

"  Now  sing  the  Doxology !  "  He  lifted  his  bow  again.  People  turn  aside 
their  faces  to  hide  their  tears.  Then  the  strains  of  thanksgiving  rose  up  under 
the  glimmering  trees.  And  old  Susan  stood  up  and  sung. 

It  is  near  sunset  now.  The  red  sky  shines  through  the  skeleton  limbs  of  the 
still  trees.  The  crows  are  cawing  afar  over  a  dead  corn-field.  The  jaws  are 
calling  in  the  savin-bushes.  Old  Susan  looks  into  her  brother's  face.  She  takes 
little  Susan  by  the  hand. 

A  bird  comes  flying  through  the  air  out  of  the  woods  and  alights  on  the  top 
of  an  elm.     It  has  a  red  breast,  which  shines  in  the  sunset.     It  lifts  its  brown 
wings  joyfully  and  begins  to  sing. 
It  was  the  last  song  of  the  robin.1 

1  This  story  is  used  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers.     I  wrote  it  originally 
for  the  Thanksgiving  number  of  "  Harper's  Weekly,"  1893. 


ELECTRICITY    AND    MINES    BUILDINGS. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    STORY    OF    THE    OPENING    OF    THE    WORLD'S    COLUMBIAN 

EXPOSITION. 

SINGLE  member  of  the  Folk  Lore  Society  was  in 
Chicago  at  the  opening  of  the  Exposition.  He  re- 
turned a  few  days  after  the  event.  It  was  one  of  the 
plans  of  this  Society  to  have  its  members  give 
accounts  of  the  new  places  they  visited,  and  a  meet- 
ing was  called  on  the  return  of  this  fortunate  member 
to  hear  him  relate  the  story  of  the  May  Day  opening  of  the  Fair. 

The  story1  increased  the  interest  among  the  members  in  Mr.  Mar- 
lowe's visit.  What  suggestions  might  not  Mr.  Marlowe  have  to 
make  ? 

1  This  account  was  written  by  Mr.  C.  A.  Stephens  for  the  "  Youth's  Companion." 


48 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY, 


MAY   DAY   AT  THE   WORLD'S    FAIR. 

IT  was  almost  twelve  o'clock  on  the  opening  day  of  the  World's  Fair. 
President  Cleveland  was  on  the  grand  stand  in  front  of  the  Administration 
Building.  The  triumphant  Columbian  March  had  been  rendered  by  the  great 
orchestra;  the  director-general  had  given  his  admirable  address;  the  ode 


ADMINISTRATION    BUILDING   AND    COURT   OF    HONOR. 

and  prophecy  had  been  read,  and  the  President  was  making  his  brief  speech  of 
the  opening  hour. 

"  Look  sharp  !  He  will  touch  the  button  in  a  moment  more  !  Watch  for 
the  flags  and  the  fountains  !  " 

Massed  before   the   platform,  and   extending  away  down  the  grand  square 


STORY  OF  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  COLUMBIAN  EXPOSITION.         51 

toward  the  Peristyle,  still  streaming  in  through  the  broad  courts,  thronging  the 
immense  fa9ades  and  capacious  balconies  of  the  mighty  buildings,  and  even 
perched  by  scores  and  by  hundreds  on  the  lofty  battlements  and  amidst  the 
huge  statuary  groups  of  the  roofs,  were  well-nigh  four  hundred  thousand 
people. 

It  was  a  vast  oceanic  crowd,  gathered  from  every  land  and  nation  of  the 
globe  to  celebrate  the  inaugural  day  of  the  Columbian  Exposition. 

Turks,  Arabs,  Singhalese,  and  Malays ;  Algerians,  Dahometans,  Coreans, 
Samaons,  Egyptians,  and  Eskimos,  as  well  as  Japanese,  French,  Germans,  Span- 
iards, and  Russians,  were  represented  and  mixed  throughout  that  great  throng, 
to  which  also  were  added  a  hundred  or  more  painted  and  feathered  Sioux 
Indians. 

These  last,  in  fact,  were  the  only  true,  original  Americans  present,  for  in 
one  sense  all  others  are  immigrants. 

Although  the  preparations  had  been  delayed  by  a  long,  cold,  driving  rain- 
storm, word  had  gone  abroad  that  on  Monday,  May  first,  the  World's  Fair 
would  be  opened,  and  foul  weather  did  not  keep  the  people  at  home. 

When  the  President  arrived,  shortly  before  eleven  o'clock,  the  sun,  for  the 
first  time  in  several  days,  broke  through  the  dark,  low-lying  clouds;  but  trail- 
ing fogs  still  half  veiled  the  domes,  towers,  and  finials  of  the  gigantic  buildings. 
Never,  as  it  seemed  to  those  who  have  marked  their  progress  toward  comple- 
tion, had  these  huge  structures  looked  so  enormous,  as  now  that  their  founda- 
tions were  encompassed  and  blackened  by  the  innumerable  multitudes,  while 
their  domes  and  roofs  were  looming,  half  concealed,  in  the  mist-clouds. 

The  magnitude  of  the  grand  square  and  the  vastness  of  the  assemblage 
alike  defied  the  power  of  the  human  voice  to  fill  or  reach.  The  prayer  and  the 
ode  were  heard  by  but  few.  But  the  voice  of  the  President  was  stronger,  and 
audible  farther;  and  when,  advancing,  amidst  a  tremendous  outburst  of  cheers, 
he  began  his  short  address,  the  opening  sentence,  admirable  in  its  simple  mod- 
esty, "  I  am  here,  my  fellow-citizens,  to  join  in  the  congratulations  which  befit 
this  occasion,"  penetrated  to  a  greater  distance,  and  stimulated  remote  areas  of 
the  throng  to  try  to  approach  nearer  and  hear  more. 

The  pressure  of  these  converging  masses  of  humanity  soon  began  to  be  felt 
alarmingly  by  the  central  concourse,  directly  in  front  of  the  platform.  The 
lines  of  stalwart  guards,  although  aided  and  re-enforced  by  platoons  of  United 
States  infantry,  were  powerless  to  withstand  this  immense  inward  movement. 
Guards  and  soldiers  were  pushed  aside,  and  borne  on  by  the  resistless  pressure. 
Their  brandished  swords  and  shouts  appeared  not  to  be  noticed  or  heeded ;  and 
for  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  would  be  borne  down 
and  crushed  under  foot. 


52  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Many  women  fainted,  and  were  supported  bodily  by  those  near  them ;  nor 
could  the  Red  Cross  chairs  gain  access,  for  a  time,  to  take  them  away  to  the 
emergency  hospitals. 


STREET  SCENE,  —  OPENING  DAY. 

The  crowd  swayed  to  and  fro,  oscillating  rhythmically,  and  displaying  within 
itself  currents  and  counter-currents  of  human  beings  which  met  and  mutually 
checked  each  other.  At  last,  as  if  from  restored  equilibrium,  the  tumult 
ceased. 


STORY  OF  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  COLUMBIAN  EXPOSITION.         55 

By  good  fortune  no  one  had  been  seriously  injured ;  but  the  spectacle  of 
resistless  might,  presented  by  this  movement  of  three  hundred  thousands  of 
people,  will  not  soon  be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed  it  from  the  platform. 

From  here  and  there  in  the  great  tract  of  human  heads  and  faces,  bursts  of 
cheering  rose  at  intervals,  and  were  responded  to  from  opposite  quarters ;  and 
it  was  amidst  such  scenes  as  these  that  the  President  finished  his  speech  and 
advanced  to  the  little  triple  dais  of  oak  and  velvet,  draped  with  the  national 
colors,  and  pressed  the  electric  key,  or  "  button,"  by  means  of  which  the  great 
Allis  engine  in  Machinery  Hall  was  set  in  motion. 

The  same  key  also  gave  the  signal  to  all  the  flagmen,  fountain-men,  can- 
noneers, and  boatmen  on  the  lagoons,  to  enact  their  parts  in  the  great  pro- 
gramme of  display. 

But  louder  even  than  the  artillery  salutes  and  the  shrieking  of  steam  whistles 
was  the  mighty  roar  of  applause  from  the  multitude.  It  was,  in  truth,  vox 
populi :  the  voice  of  the  people  in  their  united  might.  Then  for  a  few  moments 
a  kind  of  silence  fell,  and  the  great  sea  of  faces  was  seen  to  be  rapt  and  intent 
on  the  brilliant  spectacle  of  the  unfurling  flags,  and  leaping  white  jets  and 
spray-bursts  from  the  fountains. 

On  the  instant,  at  the  touch  of  the  button,  the  great  buildings  turned  suddenly 
resplendent  with  gay  colors :  the  flags,  ensigns,  streamers,  gonfalons,  and 
emblems  of  all  nations.  In  a  moment  the  stately  "  white  city  of  palaces  "  had 
grown  deliriously  gay  with  bright  bunting;  and  on  the  lagoons  swiftly  propelled 
gondolas,  in  Venetian  red  and  blue,  mingled  with  the  even  brighter-hued 
electric  launches. 

And  over  all  —  a  curious,  pleasing  feature  of  the  hour  —  wheeled  hundreds 
of  white  gulls,  visitors  from  the  great  lake  just  outside,  whose  peculiar  wild  cries 
blended  with  the  human  acclamations. 

The  President  had  spoken,  and  had  opened  the  Exposition.  The  brief  cere- 
monies were  over,  and  the  mighty  concourse  in  Administration  Square  melted 
away,  in  streamlets  and  groups,  for  a  day  of  sight-seeing  in  the  grounds. 

Many  made  their  way  to  the  Manufactures  Building,  to  behold  the  largest 
edifice  in  the  world,  and  also  in  the  hope  of  gaining  another  glimpse  of  the 
President  and  Cabinet,  who  were  soon  to  proceed  thither  in  company  with  the 
Duke  of  Vcragua,  a  direct  descendant,  in  the  eleventh  generation,  of  Christopher 
Columbus. 

Almost  as  many  more  turned  toward  Machinery  Hall,  to  sec  the  huge  engines 
and  dynamos  which  had  been  so  recently  set  in  motion.  The  rest  distributed 
themselves  in  many  directions  through  the  grounds. 

Then  indeed  it  was  apparent  that  half  a  million  of  people  may  be  present  at 


56  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

the  Exposition  without  crowding  or  mutual  inconvenience.  From  many  points 
of  view,  in  fact,  no  one  would  now  have  suspected  that  an  unusual  number  of 
visitors  were  on  the  grounds.  The  great  squares,  plazas,,  avenues,  courts,  and 
interspaces  swallowed  them  up,  and  if  one  may  use  the  expression,  gaped  for 
more. 

Eighty  thousand  may  visit  the  Manufactures  Building  at  one  time.  Agri- 
cultural Building  has  room  for  thirty  thousand,  Machinery  Hall  for  as  many 
more,  and  so  on  of  a!l  the  other  great  structures.  A  million  of  people  may  be 
present  at  the  Fair  on  a  single  day  without  serious  obstruction  to  sight-seeing. 

The  four  hundred  thousand  or  more  who  attended  the  May-day  opening 
were  a  remarkably  quiet  and  orderly  assemblage.  Very  few  dissensions  or 
disturbances  of  any  kind  occurred.  Few  rogues  were  present,  so  far  as  known ; 
if  present,  they  contented  themselves  with  sight-seeing.  But  one  pickpocket 
attempted  to  ply  his  vocation,  and  he  was  detected  in  the  act. 

After  the  opening  exercises,  the  great  assemblage  gave  an  observer  the  im- 
pression of  being  unusually  silent,  as  if  awed  by  the  grandeur  and  magnitude  of 
the  buildings.  On  every  hand  people  were  seen  to  be  gazing  in  absorbed 
contemplation.  Foreigners  present  remarked  this  silence  of  the  people  with 
surprise,  it  was  so  unlike  the  vivacious  chatter  of  a  European  crowd.  Americans 
are  unemotional,  irresponsive,  stupid,  they  exclaimed. 

They  failed  to  understand  the  American  type  of  mind.  Our  people  were 
beholding,  intelligently  comparing,  estimating,  thinking ;  and  one  who  really 
thinks  is  not  apt  to  chatter.  These  silent  gazers  were  taking  in  the  height, 
breadth,  beauty,  and  magnificent  variety  of  the  great  Exposition,  —  taking  it  in 
and  storing  it  away  for  future  use. 


PORT   OF   CHICAGO. 


CHAPTER    III. 


THE    FOLK-LORE    SOCIETY'S   QUEER   STORIES. 


HE  Folk-Lore  Society  which  became  a  part  of  the 
Village  Improvement  Society  in  West  Roxbury, 
used  to  have  Story-Telling  Nights,  and  on  these 
occasions  elderly  people  were  invited  to  attend  and 
relate  old  village  stories.  The  Folk-Lore  story  is 
a  very  interesting  department  of  Folk-Lore ;  and  of 
all  places  in  America,  the  towns  that  follow  the  windings  of  the 
Charles  River,  are  rich  in  quaint  old  tales.  The  Brook  Farm-House, 
now  the  German  Orphan  Asylum,  sent  into  the  world  a  coterie  of 
magic  story-tellers.  The  old  houses  around  the  Dedham  Woods  all 
have  their  legends.  West  Roxbury  and  the  Newtons  are  haunted 
places. 

Among  the  popular  subjects  of  this  antique  story-telling,  are  "  The 


6o 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 


Old  New   England  Ghost   Story,"  and  "  Funny  Tales  of  Old   Inde- 
pendence Days." 

There  were  several  of  these  stories  that  were  particularly  popular. 
One  of   them  was  the  reading  of  that   masterpiece    of  old  wonder- 


GOVERNMENT   BUILDING. 


books,  known  as  "  The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker,"  a  warning  to  usurers, 
speculators,  and  all  over-reaching  people. 

Stories  of  "  Lord  Timothy  Dexter  "  and  old  New  England  Ghost 
Stories  were  among  the  interesting  narratives  that  had  entertained 
the  society.  We  give  two  of  these, —  BI.INGO  THE  BLACKSMITH,  OR 
LORD  TIMOTHY  DKXTER'S  POET  and  THE  DARBY  RING. 


THE   FOLK-LORE   SOCIETY'S   QUEER   STORIES. 


BLINGO,   THE    BLACKSMITH. 

TOMMY  TOPP  sat  sunning  himself  in  the  wide  open  door  of  Blingo's  black- 
smith shop,  when  a  cloud  of  oust  appeared  in  the  highway ;  a  chariot  presently 
broke  into  view  from  the  dusty  cloud,  and  four  black  horses  stopped  under 
the  golden  elms  that  shaded  a  rustic  watering-trough  near  the  rural  smithy. 

This  was  a  strange  event.  People  did  not  ride  in  "  chariots  "  in  Massachu- 
setts during  the  last  century,  as  a  rule,  and  never  in  a  chariot  like  this. 


MACMOXXIES   (COLU.MIUAN)   FOUNTAIN. 

The  vehicle  was  not  of  the  classic  Roman  pattern,  such  as  swept  under 
the  triumphal  arches  in  the  purple  days  of  the  emperors;  nor,  indeed,  a  state 
coach  like  the  disjointed  affairs  of  the  days  of  good  Queen  Anne.  But  it  was 
as  lively  and  picturesque  in  color  as  a  band  carriage  of  to-day,  and  it  was 


64 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


ornamented  with  a  very  curious  coat-of-arms,  the  design  of  which  was  myste- 
rious, and  probably  was  intended  to  be  so. 

Tommy  Topp  started  up  with  eyes  wide  with  wonder.  Blingo  dropped  an 
iron  whiffle-tree  that  he  was  making,  and  ran  to  the  door,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  sooty  hand. 


THE    PERISTYLE. 

The  horses  having  drank  at  the  watering-trough,  the  livened  coachman,  or 
charioteer,  drove  them  toward  the  door,  exclaiming,  "  Whoa!  "  in  an  imperial 
tone,  as  a  footman  alighted,  in  a  glory  of  shining  buttons. 

The  door  of  the  chariot  was  opened,  and  another  wonder  appeared  in  the 
shape  of  an  old  man  in  a  cocked  hat,  cape-cloak,  and  knee-buckles,  carrying  a 
gold-headed  cane.  He  rose  up  from  under  a  kind  of  canopy,  and  said  in  a 
terrific  tone :  — 


THE  FOLK-LORE   SOCIETY'S   QUEER   STORIES.  67 

"  Where  's  the  blacksmith  ?  " 

The  word  "  where  "  rasped  the  very  air. 

"  Ah,  ah  —  I  see,  —  Lord  Dexter,"  stammered  Blingo.  "  You  do  me  great 
honor.  How  can  I  serve  you?  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  old  man  turned  to  his  coachman,  and  said,  laconically,  — 

"  You  talk  with  him." 

"  One  of  the  horses  has  cast  a  shoe,"  said  the  coachman. 

The  blacksmith  at  once  examined  the  foot  of  the  horse,  —  a  matter  in  which 
Tommy  Topp  took  little  interest,  as  that  was  a  common  affair.  The  boy's  eyes 
were  riveted  on  the  infirm  but  pompous  old  man,  as  he  hobbled  about  with  the 
aid  of  his  gold-headed  cane. 

The  strange  restlessness  of  his  eyes  would  have  excited  the  curiosity  of  any 
one,  and  seemed  to  fascinate  Tommy,  whose  life  had  been  uneventful,  but  who 
had  a  very  lively  imagination. 

The  old  man  took  a  few  turns  under  the  trees,  through  which  the  sunlight 
was  sifting  that  bright,  mellow  afternoon.  Then  he  turned  suddenly  and 
exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  command,  — 

"  Plummer,  get  out." 

Another  marvel  appeared,  a  marvel  to  Tommy,  and  a  spectacle  that  would 
have  been  equally  exciting  to  almost  any  one  outside  of  the  sea-town  of  New- 
buryport  and  its  neighborhoods. 

Out  of  a  richly  embroidered  or  figured  robe  rose  a  figure  covered  by  a 
cloak  that  was  decorated  with  stars  and  fringes.  It  was  a  poet,  —  an  unusual 
curiosity,  for  poets  were  not  common  in  those  days.  He,  too,  had  a  cocked 
hat,  large  silver  knee-buckles,  and  a  gold-headed  cane. 

Tommy  had  heard  of  Jonathan  Plummer,  the  former  fish-peddler,  who  had 
discovered  that  he  could  make  rhymes,  and  had  been  appointed  laureate  by 
"  Lord "  Timothy  Dexter,  whose  chateau,  with  its  remarkable  statues  and 
gilded  eagle,  looked  down  from  a  high  street  on  the  blue  harbor  of  Newbury- 
port.  To  Tommy,  this  transformation  of  a  poor  fish-peddler  into  the  poet  of 
the  self-created  "  lord  "  was  one  of  the  most  marvellous  events  since  the  days  of 
which  he  had  read  in  the  "  Thousand  and  One  Nights." 

The  poems  of  Jonathan  Plummer  are  still  to  be  found  in  the  quaint  lore  of 
antiquarian  societies,  in  whose  safe  deposits  so  much  of  the  world's  genius  has 
to  wait  appreciation. 

Who  was  this  strange  man,  thus  impatiently  waiting  for  the  shoeing  of  his 
horse,  who  so  greatly  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  Yankee  boy? 

A  more  picturesque  answer  cannot  be   given  than  that  presented  in  the 


68 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


words  of  Jonathan  Plummer,  the  poet,  quoted  from  a  long  poem  which  relates 
his  master's  history:  - 

"  Lord  Dexter  is  a  man  of  fame  ; 
Most  celebrated  is  his  name, 
More  precious  far  than  gold  that 's  pure 
Lord  Dexter  shines  forevermore." 


GOVERNMENT   BUILDING. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  poet  sometimes  used  imperfect  rhymes. 

"  His  house  is  white,  and  trimmed  with  green  ; 
For  many  miles  it  may  be  seen. 
It  shines  as  bright  as  any  star  ; 
The  fame  of  it  has  spread  afar. 

"Lord  Dexter,  like  King  Solomon, 
Had  gold  and  silver  by  the  ton, 
And  bells  to  churches  he  hath  given, 
To  worship  the  Great  King  of  Heaven." 

The  Arabian  kings  had  their  astrologers,  and  so  had  other  kings  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  "  Lord  "  Dexter  was  as  famous  for  his  intimacy  with  fortune- 
tellers as  for  his  garden  of  statues  of  heroes,  among  which  his  own  effigy  occu- 
pied two  pedestals  at  Newburyport. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  SOCIETY'S   QUEER  STORIES.  71 

He  was  on  the  way  to  Lynn,  when  he  drove  up  before  Blingo's  door,  to 
visit  "  Moll  "  Pitcher,  a  woman  who  was  reputed  to  have  the  gift  of  second 
sight,  and  who  "  told  fortunes  by  tea-cups." 

"  Lord  "  Dexter,  as  he  was  called,  but  really  Timothy  Dexter,  of  Newbury- 
port,  was  a  real  and  very  famous  character  of  the  last  century.  He  was  a 
mildly  insane  man,  who  had  acquired  a  large  fortune  by  trading  adventurously 
at  sea.  The  grotesque  fact  of  his  sending  warming-pans  to  hot  climates,  and 
of  the  ship's  captain  selling  them  for  ladles  for  molasses  and  returning  with  a 
fortune,  was  an  old-time  wonder-tale,  as  well  as  the  joke  of  his  writing  a  book 
called  "  A  Pickle  for  the  Knowing  Ones,"  and  putting  all  the  punctuation  marks 
on  the  last  page,  with  the  direction  to  the  readers  to  "  Pepper  the  dish  to  suit 
themselves." 

His  strange  mansion  and  gardens  and  statues  are  still  to  be  seen  pictured  in 
old  books,  as  is  his  own  portrait  in  costume,  with  embroidered  vest,  cocked 
hat,  and  laced  trousers.  There  were  many  stories  of  this  eccentric  man  who 
so  greatly  enjoyed  the  fancy  that  he  was  a  lord. 

Curious  as  is  this  history,  well-known  to  the  old  New  England  families,  it  is 
hardly  more  so  than  that  of  "  Moll  "  Pitcher,  who  figures  in  one  of  Whittier's 
poems,  and  who  was  equally  celebrated  as  an  odd  character  in  New  England 
a  century  ago,  when  trading  by  sea  was  the  principal  business  along  the  coast. 

This  strange  woman  seems  to  have  been  sincere  in  her  belief  that  she  pos- 
sessed the  gift  of  "second  sight,"-— an  hallucination  that  she  probably  inherited 
from  her  grandfather,  who  thought  that  he  was  a  "  wizard,"  whatever  that 
may  have  been. 

The  sailors  went  to  consult  her  in  regard  to  their  voyages,  and  crews  some- 
times refused  to  depart  from  port  if  her  predictions  were  unfavorable.  She 
had  a  strong,  masculine  face,  with  something  hidden  behind  it ;  a  rather  kindly 
face  withal,  but  self-conscious  and  keen. 

Apart  from  her  hallucination  and  its  evil  influences,  she  was  a  good  and  self- 
respecting  woman.  The  simple  cottage  where  she  lived  was  visited  for  many 
years  after  her  death,  which  occurred  in  1813,  by  collectors  of  traditions  and 
folk-lore,  and  by  nearly  all  strangers  who  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Lynn. 

Like  Lord  Dexter,  this  woman  seems  to  have  been  mildly  insane.  The  two 
seemed  to  be  confidential  friends,  and  Dexter  used  to  ride  over  to  Lynn  to 
consult  with  her.  He  was  reputed  to  have  gained  a  part  of  his  wealth  by  the 
aid  of  her  divining  tea-cups. 

Blingo  soon  shod  the  horse.  The  imaginary  "  lord  "  and  his  plebeian  poet 
entered  the  coach.  The  driver  mounted  his  box,  and  the  footman  his  post. 
There  was  a  crack  of  the  whip,  a  rush  of  the  startled  black  horses,  and  a  great 


72  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

cloud  of  dust  rose  again,  as  the  grotesque  vehicle  wheeled  away  under  the 
glimmering  autumn  leaves,  in  the  direction  of  the  blue  capes  of  Lynn. 

As  it  passed  from  the  view  of  the  humble  smithy,  Blingo  the  blacksmith  and 
Tommy  Topp  sat  down  beside  each  other  in  the  open  door,  and  discussed  the 
import  of  this  curious  event.  The  effect  of  this  harlequinade  on  the  mind  of 
the  old  blacksmith  and  the  boy  was  to  make  them  ill  at  ease  in  their  simple 
stations  of  life. 

"  This  is  a  strange  world,"  said  Blingo, —  "  a  very  strange,  strange  world. 
Look  at  Timothy  Dexter.  He  got  rich  by  accident,  and  thinks  he  's  a  lord. 
Here  I  have  to  work  hard  all  day  in  order  to  live,  and  pay  my  honest  debts,  and 
then  have  nothing  left  for  old  age.  That  man  never  worked  as  I  work  a  day 
in  his  life.  Now  he  's  going  to  see  that  lying  old  fortune-teller.  It 's  all  wrong, 
yet  see  how  he  prospers  !  I  declare  I  lose  faith  in  everything." 

The  sun  was  sinking  over  the  autumn  hills  in  mingled  lustres  of  vermilion 
and  gold.  The  shadows  were  darkening  in  the  woods  and  orchards.  Every- 
where the  crickets  were  chirping  in  the  fading  grasses,  and  their  lonesome 
notes  only  added  to  the  honest  blacksmith's  dissatisfaction.  There  are  times 
when  even  a  true  heart  becomes  discouraged. 

"  Blingo  !  "  said  Tommy,  "  I  'm  thinkin '  that  we  might  be  rich." 

"Are  you?     I  should  like  to  know  how?" 

"  We  might  get  Moll  Pitcher  to  tell  our  fortunes,  as  well  as  Lord  Dexter, 
have  been  told  something  that  I  believe  is  true." 

"What's  that?" 

"  I  Ve  been  told  that  there  is  a  pot  of  gold  hidden  in  the  High  Rock  of 
Lynn." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  " 

"  Grandma  Pennypacker." 

There  was  a  thoughtful  silence. 

"  Well,  what  if  there  is?  "  continued  Blingo. 

"  I  Ve  a  plan,"  said  Tommy,  hesitatingly.  "I'd  like  to  go  and  ask  Moll 
Pitcher  if  she  '11  tell  me  where  the  money-pot  is  hidden.  And  then  if  she  tells 
me  we  can  go  and  dig  it  up,  and  you  can  have  half  of  the  gold  and  I  will  have 
half.  That  will  be  fair.  Everybody  knows  it's  up  there  somewheres,  but  no 
one  knows  where.  She  only  asks  three  shillings  to  look  into  her  tea-cup.  And 
then  —  and  then  —  perhaps  we  might  ride  in  a  chariot  and  have  a  big  house." 

There  had  been  a  legend  for  nearly  a  hundred  years  in  Lynn  that  certain 
pirates  landed  on  the  coast,  and  buried  treasures  at  High  Rock  or  Dungeon 
Rock,  two  well-known  places  near  the  village.  Three  of  these  men  were  cap- 
tured and  taken  to  England,  but  a  third  one,  Thomas  Veale,  continued  to  live 


THE  FOLK-LORE  SOCIETY'S  QUEER  STORIES.  75 

there  for  many  years,  but,  it  is  supposed,  was  buried  in  the  rocks  by  the  earth- 
quake of  1658. 

This  legend,  as  is  usual  with  legends,  grew  with  years,  and  it  is  still  repeated 
in  Lynn.  It  filled  the  popular  fancy  more  than  one  hundred  years  ago,  and 
was  especially  vivid  in  Lord  Timothy  Dexter's  day. 

Visions  of  riches  began  to  expand  in  the  boy's  mind,  and  his  mental  mood 
perceptibly  affected  the  honest  soul  of  Blingo. 

"  Think  what  we  might  do  if  we  were  only  rich !  "  said  the  boy,  with  eager 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  we  should  n't  feel  just  honest  as  we  do  now,  if 
we  had  money  that  we  had  not  earned  ourselves,  and  that  did  n't  belong  to  us," 
said  Blingo.  "  It 's  a  great  thing  to  feel  that  one's  honest." 

"  But  the  money-pot  don't  belong  to  anybody.  It 's  as  much  yours  and 
mine  as  any  one's.  It  belongs  to  the  man  that  finds  it." 

"Yes,  yes;  p'r'apsso;  p'r'aps  not;  and  p'r'aps  I'd  lose  my  own  respect 
if  I  was  to  let  you  go  to  a  fortune-teller  to  find  it.  Stands  to  reason  that  the 
Lord  don't  reveal  His  secrets  through  Moll  Pitcher's  tea-cups;  and  if  He  don't 
who  does?  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know  —  who  does?  It's  the  Evil  One 
himself." 

The  boy  sat  silent.  The  sounds  around  the  farm-houses  were  echoed  here 
and  there, —  the  dog's  bark  and  the  chore-boy's  whistle.  Now  and  then  a  light 
gust  of  wind,  like  the  passing  of  a  messenger  unseen,  shook  down  the  yellow 
leaves,  and  left  a  rustling  in  the  withered  trees. 

Afar,  a  bell  was  ringing  in  a  steeple  of  Lynn,  and  nearer  there  was  a 
rumble  of  cart-wheels  laboring  under  a  weight  of  corn. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  comfort,"  said  Blingo,  after  this  pause,  as  if  talk- 
ing to  himself,  "  there  is  a  great  deal  ,of  comfort  to  be  taken  with  money  if  it 
can  be  got  honestly." 

"  But  ril  go  to  the  fortune-teller." 

'  That  would  n't  help  me  inwardly.  I  'm  afeard  it  would  n't  be  right  for  me 
to  allow  you  to  do  what  I  would  n't  like  to  do  myself,  and  I  never  heard  of  any 
good  that  ever  come  from  consulting  tea-grounds.  Still  — "  and  there  was 
another  pause  —  "  Still,  money  would  be  handy  with  a  wife  and  seven  children, 
and  gray  hairs  comin'.  Yes,  it  would." 

The  word  "  still"  settled  the  question  with  Tommy,  and  he  started  up  and 
walked  away  without  another  word.  He  had  almost  reached  the  decision  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  Lynn  fortune-teller,  after  the  example  of  Lord  Dexter.  As 
he  hurried  home  that  wish  was  confirmed,  and  he  fell  asleep  in  the  attic  to 


76 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 


MACHINERY    HALL. 


dream  of  fortune  and  fame,  chariots  and  poets,  and  a  chateau  overlooking  the 
blue  capes  of  the  sea. 

The  next  morning  Tommy  arose,  and  after  breakfast  started  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Lynn.  The  first  pause  in  his  rapid  journey  he  made  at  Blingo's  smithy. 

"  Blingo,  I  'm  goin'." 

"Do  tell!"  said  Blingo,  dropping  his  hammer.  "Well,  it  may  be  right, 
but  I  don't  feel  quite  right  about  it.  Still,  I  would  not  fly  into  the  face  of  good 
fortune.  Here,  she  '11  charge  you  three  shillings  for  lookin'  into  the  tea-cup, 
and  I  '11  pay  my  part.  Here  it  is." 

Tommy  took  the  money.  Then  his  feet  flew  along  the  path  by  the  side  of 
the  turnpike.  He  did  not  stop  again  until  he  reached  the  fortune-teller's  door. 

The  simple  cottage  of  Moll   Pitcher  was  gay  with  the  last  blossoms  of  a 


THE  FOLK-LORE  SOCIETY'S   QUEER  STORIES.  77 

morning-glory  vine.  Tommy  paused  to  wonder  a  moment  at  the  pile  of  varie- 
gated bloom,  when  the  small  front  door  opened,  and  the  fortune-teller  herself 
appeared,  with  an  inquiring  face. 

"The  frost  has  spoiled  them."  said  she,  seeing  Tommy  looking  at  the 
morning-glories.  "  They  will  all  die  in  a  few  days;  it  is  a  pity.  Won't  you 
come  in  ?  " 

Tommy  entered  the  solitary  cottage,  and  was  shown  a  chair  in  a  simple, 
plain  room. 

"  I  Ve  come  to  ask  you  about  something,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  poor.  We  're  all 
poor  at  home,  and  —  and  —  I  —  I  wish  I  had  money.  I  Ve  come  to  see  if  you  '11 
help  me  to  find  some." 

"To  find  some?     Mercy,  child, — 

"  If  I  only  knew,  if  I  only  knew. 
What  do  you  think  that  I  would  do?" 

She  sat  down  in  a  patched  chair,  and  rocked  to  and  fro. 

"  They  say  that  you  know  everything, —  all  the  secrets  of  the  hidden  treas- 
ures, where  the  money-pots  are,  and  all,"  ventured  Tommy. 

She  looked  the  lad  sharply  in  the  face  with  her  keen  eyes,  then  smiled  and 

said:  — 

"  If  I  only  knew,  if  I  only  knew, 
What  do  you  think  that  I  would  do  ?  " 

There  was  another  silence,  which  Tommy  ventured  to  break. 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  look  into  the  tea-cup  for  me?  I  Ve  brought  the 
pay  with  me.'' 

"  What  for?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  To  tell  me  where  the  pirates  hid  the  money-pot,"  said  Tommy,  his  voice 
trembling. 

"  Mercy  on  ye,  boy, — 

"  If  I  only  knew,  if  I  only  knew, 
What  do  you  think  that  I  would  do  ?" 

There  was  another  long  silence.  Tommy  was  very  nervous ;  he  waited 
until  it  seemed  to  him  he  could  wait  no  longer,  and  then  he  asked,  faintly, 
"  What  would  you  do,  if  you  only  knew?" 

She  drew  her  chair  near  to  him.  "Listen.  What  would  I  do?  I'd  go 
and  get  it  for  myself.  Now  you  'd  better  go  home,  my  lad.  This  is  all  I  can 
do  for  you  this  morning.  Go  to  \vork  and  honestly  earn  your  money.  There, 
don't  say  that  Moll  Pitcher  has  not  given  you  good  advice,  and  I  won't  charge 
you  anything  for  it." 


7  8  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

The  disappointed  boy  dragged  his  feet  back  to  the  smithy  over  the  high- 
ways and  byways  during  the  long  autumn  afternoon,  and  sank  down  at  last  on 
the  doorsill  of  the  shop,  where  the  vision  of  Lord  Dexter's  magnificence  had 
appeared  to  him. 

Blingo  came  and  leaned  over  him. 

"  Well,  what  did  she  tell  you  ?  " 

"  She  could  n't  find  it,"  said  Tommy. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  only  said  if  she  knew  where  the  money  was,  she  'd  get  it  herself" 

THE   "DARBY  RING."1 

WHEN  I  was  young,  it  was  common  to  hear  boys  upon  the  skating  ponds 
speak  of  "  cutting  the  Darby,"  by  which  expression  they  were  supposed  to 
indicate  a  swift  ring  movement  upon  the  ice.  The  term,  I  believe,  is  still  used, 
although  comparatively  few  people  may  be  acquainted  with  its  origin.  It  came 
into  use  through  a  very  singular  occurrence,  which  for  a  time  was  the  one  great 
local  event  of  a  considerable  farming  and  maritime  region  stretching  along  the 
northeastern  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay. 

In  the  summer  of  1798,  many  respectable  persons,  whose  homes  were  in  the 
pleasant  towns  of  Bristol,  Warren,  and  Barrington,  R.  I.,  together  with  some  few 
in  the  neighboring  communities  of  Swansea  and  Rehoboth,  Mass.,  were  made 
the  victims  of  a  queer  delusion. 

A  short  time  previous,  a  man  named  Darby,  or  Derby,  —  the  first  being  the 
form  generally  accepted  by  tradition,  —  had  come  to  Warren  from  some  part  of 
Connecticut,  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  town,  and  opened  a  school.  As  he  was 
a  person  of  pleasing  address,  he  soon  became  a  decided  favorite  with  the  honest 
sea-captains  and  farmers,  who  constituted  the  "  solid  men  "  of  a  population  at 
once  rural  and  commercial. 

A  keen  judge  of  human  nature,  he  knew  how  to  adapt  his  speech  to  suit  the 
character  of  the  person  whose  sympathies  he  wished  to  engage ;  while  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  schoolmaster  made  his  utterances  oracular  to  a  degree  with  a 
people  to  whom  the  "  Columbiad  "  of  good  Joel  Barlow  was  the  only  known 
classic. 

He  was  fond  of  conversing  upon  mineralogy;  and  thence  gliding  easily  into 
necromancy  and  kindred  subjects,  he  would  dwell  upon  the  possibility  of 
unearthing  buried  treasure  through  the  exercise  of  some  mysterious  art  akin  to 
the  supernatural. 

1  Adapted  from  a  story  by  Mr.  George  Coomer  in  "Youth's  Companion." 


THE  FOLK-LORE  SOCIETY^S  QUEER  STORIES.  79 

With  abundant  citations  and  authorities  at  his  tongue's  end,  he  would  call 
up  the  traditions  of  Kidd,  Bellamy  and  other  freebooters,  and  show  how  probable 
it  was  that  much  of  their  ill-gotten  gain  remained  somewhere  hidden  about  the 
New  England  shores. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  had  wormed  himself  into  the  confidence  of 
a  number  of  sober  and  substantial  people,  —  but  he  always  chose  for  his  intimate 
friends  those  who  had  property. 

The  generation  of  our  great-grandfathers  must  have  been  much  more  credu- 
lous than  our  own,  for  it  is  agreed  upon  all  sides  that  the  crafty  adventurer  met 
with  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  converts  to  his  pretended  golden  views.  His 
operations  were  systematized  more  and  more,  till  they  extended  from  Warren 
to  the  neighboring  towns,  where  he  readily  found  those  who  became  eager  to 
sit  at  the  feet  of  one  possessed  of  so  much  mystic  learning. 

Thus  the  plans  of  the  schemer  progressed  to  his  complete  satisfaction,  until 
the  "  Darbyites  "  began  to  hold  regular  night-gatherings  with  a  view  to  a  more 
complete  organization,  and  for  the  perfecting  of  certain  necessary  charms.  It 
appears  surprising  that  in  so  short  a  time  he  should  have  been  able  to  find  so 
many  victims,  all  of  excellent  character  and  social  position.  Of  course,  the 
"  Nobodies,"  as  the  uninvited  were  called,  were  not  wanted,  —  and  it  was  this 
class  which  stood  off  and  hooted  at  the  "  Somebodies." 

The  impostor  was  not  long  in  giving  his  adherents  to  understand  that  nothing 
could  be  effected  without  money,  —  metal  must  be  made  to  attract  metal ;  and, 
however  close-fisted  they  may  have  been  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  the 
excited  old  farmers  and  shipmasters  contributed  liberally  of  their  substance  to 
further  Darby's  scheme.  Would  they  not  be  repaid  a  thousandfold  when  the 
treasures  of  the  "Adventure"  galley,  buried  with  many  a  charm  by  Kidd's  own 
hand,  should  be  given  forth  to  the  light  of  the  moon? 

Imagination  must  have  wrought  powerfully  with  them,  giving  their  plodding, 
everyday  hearts  for  the  time  a  kind  of  poetry.  No  doubt  they  had  wonderful 
dreams  by  night  and  day,  and  saw  many  a  tempting  vision : 

"  Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl ; 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels." 

And  now  came  the  placing  of  the  famous  "  Darby  Rings,"  one  of  which  was 
situated  near  the  main  road  between  the  villages  of  Warren  and  Bristol,  and 
another  at  Mount  Hope,  once  the  home  of  the  great  Indian  sachem,  King 
Philip ;  while  others  still  were,  I  believe,  established. 

The  "  Darby  Ring"  was  merely  a  circle  of  some  forty  feet  in  diameter,  about 
which  the  treasure-seekers,  in  single  file,  would  follow  their  leader  at  a  dog-trot, 


80  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

reciting  some  exceedingly  silly  jargon,  and  at  times  pausing  to  perform  such 
grotesque  and  childish  acts  as  at  a  more  rational  moment  would  have  disgusted 
them.  A  part  of  my  childhood  was  passed  on  the  premises  which  embraced 
one  of  these ;  and  although  nearly  forty  years  had  then  gone  by  since  the  feet 
of  the  Darbyites  had  paced  its  magic  round,  there  were  still  visible  some  faint 
traces  of  what  had  been.  The  earth  was  a  little  depressed,  and  the  outer  edge 
of  the  circle  showed  something  like  a  ridge. 

It  was  in  the  southeast  corner  of  an  orchard ;  and,  no  doubt  the  soft,  golden 
buttercups  sprang  there  in  Darby's  time,  as  they  did  when  we  children  played 
about  the  spot  years  and  years  after. 

The  excitement  was  now  at  its  height.  Nothing  was  thought  of  among  the 
dancing,  prancing  treasure-hunters  but  Kidd,  with  his  black  flag  and  his  kegs  of 
broad  doubloons.  With  wild  enthusiasm  they  recited  the  lines  of  the  old  dog- 
gerel, wherein  he  recounts  his  fortune:  - 

"  I  had  ninety  bars  of  gold, 

As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed; 
I  had  ninety  bars  of  gold, 

As  I  sailed ; 

I  had  ninety  bars  of  gold, 
And  dollars  manifold, 
And  riches  uncontrolled. 

As  I  sailed." 

At  each  nightly  meeting  they  were  required  to  carry  in  their  hands  sticks  of 
witch-hazel,  which  were  supposed  to  possess  the  power  of  enabling  their  holders 
to  detect  the  presence  of  buried  treasure.  Thus  each  devotee  had  his  little  rod, 
carefully  cut  and  trimmed  in  some  deep  old  swamp,  where  he  had  sought  it  out 
with  a  seriousness  and  intentness  of  purpose  that  one  smiles  to  think  upon. 

How  they  must  have  looked  capering  about  the  ring,  each  with  his  stick  of 

witch-hazel !  —  not  boys,  but  men,  —  grave,  practical  old  fellows,  some  of  whom 

"had,  perhaps,  that  very  afternoo'n  been  hoeing  corn  in  their  own  broad  fields, 

and  others  taking  account  of  cargoes   of  molasses  and    sugar  at  the   village 

wharves. 

That  there  might  be  no  disposition  to  waver  in  the  ranks,  it  was  Darby's 
custom  to  cheer  his  retainers  with  encouraging  words;  and  his  smooth  and  con- 
fident tones  were  as  reassuring  to  them  as  the  "  honk  "  of  the  leading  gander 
to  a  flock  of  wild  geese. 

"  Only  be  true  to  me,"  he  would  say,  "  and  I  will  get  the  money,"  —  a  remark 
of  which  they  saw  the  significance  a  great  deal  better  afterwards  than  they  did 
at  the  time. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  SOCIETY'S  QUEER  STORIES.  83 

Their  case  illustrated  the  homely  aphorism  that  "  they  who  dance  must  pay 
the  fiddler." 

They  were  subjected  among  other  things  to  a  constant  expenditure  for  a 
certain  wonderful  kind  of  sand,  costing  sixteen  dollars  an  ounce,  which  was 
indispensable  to  the  success  of  Darby's  magic,  and  which  he  alone  could  pro- 
cure. It  was  this  which  was  to  unlock  the  secret  of  the  old-time  buccaneer. 

Again  and  again  the  supply  was  exhausted,  only  to  be  again  and  again 
renewed ;  until  it  must  have  seemed,  even  to  those  patient  trotters  about  the 
ring,  that  the  spirit  who  guarded  the  pirate's  gold  could  be  nothing  short  of 
sand-proof! 

In  the  centre  of  the  circle  there  was  a  hole  several  feet  deep,  into  which  the 
schoolmaster  magician  and  his  followers  would  successively  pour  small  quan- 
tities of  the  precious  material,  during  the  intervals  of  their  antics. 

A  sight  more  unique  than  that  of  these  decent,  well-meaning  gentlemen, 
trotting  about  the  enchanted  ring,  under  the  shadow  of  the  apple-trees,  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  imagine.  Some  of  them  were  fat  and  duck-legged,  others 
tall  and  lean ;  but  each  one  kept  his  pace  with  tolerable  accuracy  to  the  music 
of  the  Darby  chant. 

The  inexpressibly  comic  feature  of  the  case  was  the  entire  respectability  of 
the  actors  in  this  strange  scene.  They  were  householders,  owners  of  broad 
farms  and  tall  ships.  Yet  trot,  trot,  trot,  they  went,  around  and  around,  like  so 
many  mad  dogs,  in  that  old  Bristol  Neck  orchard !  They  were  required,  upon 
going  home,  to  write  some  strange  characters  with  onion  juice  upon  bits  of 
paper,  which  were  to  be  carefully  placed  under  their  pillows  as  assistants  to 
divination.  The  characters  were,  of  course,  invisible,  but  this  did  not  affect 
their  potency. 

A  paper  called  the  "  Herald  of  the  United  States  "  was  at  the  time  pub- 
lished in  Warren,  and  in  its  issue  of  August  25,  1798,  we  find  a  communication 
written  while  the  Darby  affair  was  in  full  blast,  describing  many  of  the  per- 
formances, and  expressing  great  disgust  at  the  silliness  of  the  delusion.  From 
this  it  appears  that  not  all  our  great-grandsires  were  trotters  or  prancers,  but 
that  some  of  them  looked  upon  the  matter  very  much  as  we  should  do  to-day. 

At  last,  even  the  credulous  victims  themselves  began  to  lose  patience,  and 
whispers  of  discontent  were  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  It  was  the  begin- 
ning of  one  of  those  revolutions  which  never  go  backwards.  It  was  discovered 
that  the  magic  sand  was  obtained  from  Connecticut,  and  two  trusty  members  of 
the  circle  were  appointed  to  visit  that  State,  for  the  purpose  of  gathering  fur- 
ther information  with  regard  to  the  mysterious  mineral,  which,  to  eyes  in  some 
measure  disenchanted,  had  already  begun  to  assume  a  wofully  common 
appearance. 


84  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

The  result  of  their  mission  was  a  complete  exposure  of  the  fraud.  With 
but  little  difficulty  they  obtained  an  interview  with  the  very  person  by  whom 
the  sand  had  been  furnished,  but  who,  however,  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of 
Darby's  scheme.  As  to  the  magic  article  itself,  they  discovered  it  to  be  the 
common  burden  of  the  sea-shore  in  the  neighborhood  of  New  London,  although 
of  a  more  silvery  hue  than  the  sand  of  the  Narragansett  shore,  —  a  difference 
which  the  wily  impostor  had  turned  to  account  through  the  simplicity  of  his 
followers. 

And  now  arose  the  question  as  to  what  should  be  done  with  the  recreant 
magician.  Surrounded  by  his  enraged  dupes,  he  was  still  more  than  a  match 
for  them  in  subtlety  of  tongue. 

"  I  never  told  you  that^w  would  get  anything,"  he  said.  "  What  I  did  tell 
was,  that  if  you  would  only  be  true  to  me,  /  should  get  the  money,  and  so 
I  should  have  done  !  " 

We  have  thus  far  followed  and  quoted  our  friend  Coomer's  his- 
torical narrative,  as  it  appeared  in  a  popular  paper.  Mr.  Coomer,  an 
excellent  poet  and  writer  of  sea-stories,  lives  on  the  borders  of  the 
Mt.  Hope  Lands,  near  the  boundary-line  between  the  towns  of  War- 
ren and  Bristol,  and  quite  near  the  place  where  these  strange  events 
occurred.  The  high  lands  near  to  his  home,  overlooking  the  Mt. 
Hope  and  Narragansett  Bays,  are  full  of  haunting  traditions.  They 
are  best  visited  from  the  ancient  highway  between  the  two  towns,  now 
known  as  the  Back  Road.  The  Rhode  Island  Soldiers'  Home  is  on 
this  beautiful  elevation,  and  the  outlook  from  it  commands  the  most 
picturesque  waters  in  New  England.  The  Kickemuit  River  is  partic- 
ularly beautiful,  seen  from  these  flowery  and  orchard-shaded  highlands 
on  a  mid-summer  day.  One  of  Massasoit's  Springs  was  on  this 
river,  and  the  s^eat  legend  of  the  Northmen  is  connected  with  the 

O  O 

Mt.  Hope  Bay.  We  will  give  this  legend  later  in  verse.  A  ride  of 
a  few  miles,  out  of  Bristol  or  Warren,  would  enable  the  visitor  to 
Rhode  Island  to  view  from  these  Back  Road  farms,  or  from  Mt.  Hope, 
the  old  Pokonoket  country,  which  has  the  oldest  traditional  history  in 
America.  Here  it  is  supposed  that  the  Northmen  landed,  and  here 
certainly  is  the  ancient  bury  ing-grounds  of  the  Indian  race.  Near 


THE  FOLK-LORE   SOCIETY'S   QUEER  STORIES.  85 

Massasoit  Spring  in  Warren,  R.  I.,  Roger  Williams  spent  the  famous 
Avinter  of  his  exile,  intent  on  the  problems  of  soul  freedom,  and  the 
separation  of  church  and  state.  King  Philip  must  have  been  a  boy 
then.  It  is  proposed  to  erect  a  memorial  of  Massasoit  at  this  spring. 


UTAH    STATE   BUILDING. 


We 


A  very  curious  legend  is  associated  with  the  Darby  episode, 
do  not  know  how  well  it  is  founded,  but  we  give  it  here :  - 

The  men  whom  he  had  deceived  tarred  and  feathered  him.  In 
this  disgraceful  garment  of  woe,  looking  like  a  gigantic  half-plucked 
bird,  he  ran  away,  and  found  shelter  for  the  night  in  the  cellar  of  one 
of  the  quiet  farmsteads. 

The  next  morning  the  sood  woman  of  the  house  had  occasion  to 


86  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

go  down  into  the  cellar.     Her  soap  barrel,  pork  barrels,  and  probably 
cider  barrels  were  there. 

A  dark  place  is  an  old-time  New  England  cellar, —  dark  and  damp, 
with  an  earthy  smell.  Lights  burned  low  there. 

Our  good  woman  probably  passed  around  the  foundation  walls  of 
the  great  chimney,  where  was  a  flue  for  ashes,  passed  the  potato-bins 
and  turnip  covers,  and,  with  peering  eyes,  looked  down  on  one  of  the 
many  platforms  for  barrels. 

Cellars  were  haunted  places.  There  was  an  awful  story  of  a 
woman  who  murdered  her  husband,  and  hid  his  body  under  the  ash 
barrel,  that  had  taken  hold  of  popular  imagination  in  those  revenge- 
ful times,  and  most  people  thought  of  it  as  they  made  their  uncertain 
ways  around  the  cellars.  It  was  all  poky  and  still,  grewsome  and 
tomb-like. 

Our  good  woman  heard  a  noise.  That  was  not  strange.  Cats  and 
rats  dwelt  in  the  cellar,  and  the  latter  came  out  of  their  hiding-places 
when  the  former  were  not  at  home. 

She  was  ill  prepared  for  what  followed. 

There  arose  up  before  her  an  awful  object.  Whatever  ghost- 
stories  she  may  have  heard  by  kitchen  fires  in  the  long  evenings,  she 
had  never  had  any  account  of  anything  like  this. 

Its  body  was  like  that  of  Apollyon,  as  represented  in  the  never-to- 
be-forgotten  picture  in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  But  it  wore  the 
feathers  of  a  goose. 

Erupit!  evasit!  Our  good  woman  ascended  the  cellar  stairs  with 
a  celerity  that  spoke  well  for  the  power  of  latent  nervous  force.  The 
dreadful  figure  followed  her,  begging  for  mercy,  and  confessing  that 
he  was  Darby  the  Impostor.  The  poor  woman  supplied  his  wants, 
and  probably  provided  him  with  a  suit  of  clothes,  when  he  disappeared 
from  society  forever. 


— 


THE   LAKE   FRONT. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE   STORY   OF   THE   BUILDING   OF   THE   WHITE   CITY. 


UT  of  this  legendary  and  story-telling  atmosphere,  the 
three  Marlowes  passed  through  the  country  in  beauti- 
ful June,  and  found  themselves,  in  the  longest  days 
of  the  year,  in  that  wonder-city  of  the  new  world,  - 
Chicago. 

O 

"  The   first  story  that   we  will   have   to   hear,"  said 
Mr.  Marlowe,  "will  be  that  of  the  Fair  itself." 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   FAIR. 

IF  ever  there  was  a  man  with  the  heart  and  intelligence  to  welcome  the 
Avorld,  it  is  Judge  Bonney,  whose  generous  spirit  and  hearty  words  millions  of 
people  will  remember.  As  the  leading  mind  of  the  Exposition's  Auxiliary 
Congresses,  as  many  as  possible  of  the  delegates  to  the  many  Congresses  met 
him,  and  the  questions  which  he  answered  in  the  Art  Palace  in  Chicago,  would 
have  filled  many  Bibles.  We  hope  that  he  took  a  long  rest  after  the  close  of 
the  Exposition,  for  no  man  ever  better  earned  such  a  right. 


90  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

With  a  patience  that  was  beautiful,  and  ought  to  serve  as  a  national  lesson, 
he  met  every  one  courteously,  and  every  last  person  that  met  him  felt  that  he 
had  found  a  friend,  and  left  him  rejoicing  that  the  newly-collected  world  was  so 
friendly  in  its  representative.  His  intelligence  was  equal  to  his  courtesy,  and 
his  tact  to  both.  The  people  all  have  good  wishes  forever  for  Judge  Bonney. 

Our  trio  had  been  told  to  report  to  Judge  Bonney.  They  found  him  at 
his  desk  in  the  Art  Palace  in  the  city,  and  one  look  from  him  assured  them  that 
they  were  expected. 

"  Judge,"  said  Ephraim  the  elder,  "  I  have  called  with  my  son  here,  who  is 
a  delegate  to  the  Folk-Lore  Congress.  There  are  a  few  things  about  the  Fail- 
that  I  would  like  to  know." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  give  you  any  information  that  I  have,  my  friend. 
Sit  down,  sit  down."  We  give  the  judge's  answers  from  a  general  memory  of 
like  scenes. 

"  I  thank  thee,  friend  Bonney." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  a  Quaker,"  said  Judge  Bonney.  "  There  are  several 
people  here  already  who  are  interested  in  the  Folk-Lore  Congress.  I  will  see 
that  you  are  introduced  to  them.  What  are  some  of  the  questions  which  you 
wish  to  ask?  " 

"Well,  friend  Bonney,  what  is  the  history  of  this  great  Fair?  How  did  it 
originate?  " 

"  In  the  minds  of  many,  who  agreed  to  act  as  one,"  we  may 
imagine  the  answer  to  have  been.  We  shall  speak  of  this  topic  again. 
We  are  inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  secret  of  the  success  of  the  Fair 
may  be  found  in  the  fact  of  this  supposed  answer. 

"By  whom  was  Chicago  selected  as  the  site  of  the  Fair?" 

"  This  city  was  selected  as  the  site  of  the  Fair  by  vote  of  the  National 
House  of  Representatives,  February  24,  1890." 

"  What  other  cities  were  voted  upon?  " 

"  New  York.  St.  Louis,  and  Washington." 

"  When  did  Congress  authorize  the  Fair?" 

"  The  Act  of  Congress  authorizing  the  Fair  was  approved  April  25,  1890. 
This  was  followed  by  the  President's  Proclamation,  inviting  all  nations  to  par- 
ticipate, which  was  issued  December  24,  1890.  The  World's  Fair  Grounds 
were  dedicated  October  21,  1892.  Preceding  the  opening  of  the  Fair,  May  i> 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BUILDING   OF  THE    WHITE   CITY.  91 

1893,  was  the  grand    Naval  Review  in   New  York  Harbor,  April  26,  27,  28, 

1893." 

"  How  about  the  appropriations,  friend  Bonney?     Where  did  the  money 

come  from?  " 


STATUE   OF   THE   REPUBLIC   AND    MANUFACTURES   BUILDING. 

"  From  various  sources.  The  States  and  territories  appropriated  nearly 
$5,000,000,  and  foreign  countries  nearly  $6,000,000.  The  capital  stock 
amounts  to  $5,000,000,  the  City  of  Chicago  Bonds  to  $5,000,000,  the  Souvenir 
half-dollars  (appropriated  by  Congress),  to  $2,500,000,  and  the  Debenture 
Bonds  to  $4,000,000." 

"  What  is  the  total  value  of  the  exhibits?  " 

"  It  is  estimated  to  be  $300,000,000." 

"  What  will  the  Fair  cost?  " 

"  The  total  estimated  expense  is  $21,250,000." 

"  How  many  visitors  are  expected?" 

"  It  is  expected  that  there  will  be  about  20,000,000  visitors." 


92  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE    CITY. 

"The  gate  receipts  from  them  would  amount  to  $10,000,000.  How  much 
ground  does  the  Fair  cover?" 

"  The  total  number  of  acres  in  the  Exposition  Grounds  is  633,  of  which 
Jackson  Park  occupies  553  acres,  the  Midway  Plaisance,  80,  the  space  avail- 
able for  buildings,  556,  and  the  Interior  Waterways  (61  acres)  and  Wooded 
Island,  77." 

"  Now  I  wish  to  know  something  about  the  size  of  the  different  buildings. 
Which  is  the  largest  one?" 

"The  Manufactures  Building  is  the  largest.  It  is  1,687  feet  l°ng>  and  787 
feet  wide,  covering  44  acres  of  floor.  Its  cost  was  $1,600,750.  Of  the  other 
buildings,  the  Stock  Sheds  cover  25  acres,  the  Machinery  Building  and  Annex, 
23.2  acres,  the  Agricultural  Building  and  Annex,  19  acres,  the  Transportation 
Building,  17.9  acres,  the  Electricity  Building,  9.3  acres,  the  Building  of  Mines, 
8.5  acres,  and  the  Building  of  Horticulture,  8  acres.  The  total  number  of  acres 
covered  by  buildings  is  240." 

"  How  much  did  they  cost,  Judge  Bonney  ?  " 

"  Twelve  million  two  hundred  and  sixty-seven  thousand  dollars." 

"  How  many  other  World's  Fairs  have  been  held,  and  where?  " 

"  Between  the  years  1851  and  1889,  eight  World's  Fairs  were  held,  —  two 
of  them  in  London,  four  in  Paris,  one  in  Vienna,  and  one  in  Philadelphia." 

"  How  does  the  size  of  the  grounds  here  compare  with  those  of  the  other 
World's  Fairs,  Judge  Bonney?  " 

"  Of  the  previous  World's  Fairs,  that  of  Paris  in  1889  covered  the  largest 
area  —  200  acres  —  which  is  not  quite  one  third  the  size  of  this." 

"  How  many  visitors  had  that  Fair?" 

"  Twenty-eight  million,  one  hundred  and  forty-nine  thousand,  three  hundred 
and  fifty-three." 

"  Now,  Judge  Bonney,  tell  me  about  the  World's  Fair  Auxiliary  and  its 
Congresses,  of  which  you  are  the  representative.  When  do  the  Congresses 
meet,  and  where?  " 

"  There  are  nineteen  Departments  of  the  Congresses  of  the  World  Fair 
Auxiliary.  Each  lasts  usually  a  week.  In  May  we  held  the  Congress  of 
Woman's  Progress,  Public  Press,  and  Medicine ;  in  June,  will  be  those  of 
Temperance,  Moral  and  Social  Reform,  and  Commerce  and  Finance;  in  July, 
of  Music,  Literature,  Education,  Engineering,  and  Art  ;  in  August,  of  Govern- 
ment, Science  and  Philosophy,  and  Labor;  in  September,  of  the  Departments 
of  Religion;  and  in  October,  the  closing  month  of  the  Fair,  those  of  Sunday 
Rest,  Public  Health,  and  Agriculture." 

The  good  judge  took  the  trio  into  the  Hall  of  Columbus  and  the  Hall  of 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BUILDING   OF  THE    WHITE   CITY.  95 

Washington,  and  the  various  art  rooms  in  the  Palace  where  the  Congresses 
were  to  meet.  The  engines  shrieked  as  they  passed  the  sunny  windows,  and 
the  blue  lake  rolled  afar  as  in  fathomless  distance.  The  world  seemed  on  the 
march  in  the  great  avenues  below  the  balconies.  Near  by  rose  the  Great 
Auditorium,  and  near  it  a  colossal  bridge  led  the  way  to  the  steamers  and 
cars. 

How  bright  and  happy  the  world  looked  from  the  open  windows  of  the 
smoke-colored  Art  Palace.  As  they  passed  one  of  those  windows,  the  White 
City  some  miles  distant,  gleamed  afar  over  the  blue  lake  like  a  radiant  vision. 
Constantinople  from  the  Golden  Horn  was  not  as  celestial  and  beautiful. 

"  White,  Judge  Bonney,"  said  old  Ephraim. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  it  is  built  of  Staff." 

"  Judge  Bonney,  what  is  Staff?  " 

"  Staff  is  a  mixture  of  plaster  —  often  called  plaster  of  Paris  —  and  a  small 
per  cent  of  cement,  into  which  are  introduced  frequent  fibres  of  hemp,  jute,  or 
Sisal  grass,  to  give  it  toughness,  so  that  it  may  be  bent,  sawn,  nailed,  or  bored, 
at  will." 

"  How  is  it  cast?  " 

"  It  is  cast  in  moulds.  The  plaster  and  cement  are  first  wet  up  to  the  con- 
sistency of  thick  treacle,  a  layer  of  which  is  spread  on  the  well-lubricated  mould. 
Then  follows  a  layer  of  the  long,  tough  fibres ;  over  this  is  poured  another 
coating  of  the  liquid  plaster,  covering  in  the  fibre  and  filling  the  mould  to  the 
required  depth." 

"  Are  there  many  moulds  ? '' 

"  Yes,  there  are  a  thousand  or  more  of  different  patterns  and  sizes,  from 
those  for  casting  plain  staff-board  for  walls,  to  those  for  the  most  complex, 
beautiful,  or  fantastic  ornamentation." 

"  Are  statues  ever  made  of  it?  " 

'  Yes,  both  statues  and  statuary  groups.  The  moulds  are  first  fashioned  in 
clay,  then  coated  with  staff." 

"  How  long  does  it  take  to  make  it  ready  for  use  ?  " 

"  Oh,  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour  the  composition  hardens  sufficiently  to 
be  handled  and  taken  away  to  the  buildings  in  process  of  construction." 

"  How  long  will  it  last?  " 

"  If  kept  painted,  it  will  withstand  the  weather  for  a  number  of  years.  If 
it  cracks  or  crumbles  off,  it  can  readily  be  repaired  with  a  brush  or  trowel, 
from  a  tub  of  the  liquid  mixture.  It  is  fireproof,  and,  to  a  great  degree, 
waterproof." 


96 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


"  They  say,  Judge  Bonney,  that  there  is  a  sidewalk  there  that  goes  all  by 
itself.  Is  that  so?  Tell  us  all  about  it." 

"  The  Multiple  Speed  Sidewalk  is  also  called  the  Travelling  Sidewalk,  or 
the  Locomotive  Sidewalk.  It  is  a  mechanical  device  for  facilitating  travel  on 


MICHIGAN    AVENUE. 


the  long  pier — nearly  one  half  a  mile  long  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
wide  —  near  the  Peristyle,  thus  enabling  the  tourist  to  make  the  trip  over  the 
pier  in  ease  and  comfort,  refreshed  by  the  lake  breeze.  The  sidewalk,  which 
traverses  the  entire  length  of  the  pier  on  one  side,  returns  on  the  other, 
making  a  loop  at  each  end.  It  is  on  low  wheels.  There  are  two  parallel  sec- 
tions, or  platforms,  one  moving  at  a  rate  of  three  miles  an  hour,  about  ordinary 
walking  speed,  and  the  other  at  six  miles  an  hour,  an  easy  driving  rate.  One 
may  ride  on  either  section." 

The  Judge   led   the   trio   back   to  his   room.     It  was   crowded  with  people 
seeking  information. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BUILDING   OF  THE    WHITE   CITY.  97 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Judge  Bonney,  for  those  bits  of  information.  But 
what  are  these  few  things  that  I  have  learned  to  a  Fair  like  that  ?  I  '11  call 
again,  Judge  Bonney,  and  give  you  a  chance  to  tell  us  some  more.  T  is  n't 
often  that  I  find  a  man  so  well  stocked  with  information  about  the  world." 

Judge  Bonney  did  not  look  tired.  With  a  serene  face  he  met  the  crowd 
awaiting  him,  many  of  whom  would  ask  him  these  questions  over  again.  Our 
fancied  interview  is  but  a  picture  of  the  Judge's  work  for  nearly  a  year. 

The  Marlowes,  under  the  influence  of  the  officers  of  the  World's 
Auxiliary,  who  invited  them  to  a  literary  reception  soon  after  their 
arrival,  arranged  to  spend  their  home-life  in  Chicago  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Edmand,  who  led  a  Folk-Lore  Society  which  met  at  their  home 
on  Michigan  Avenue.  The  Edmands  family  were  from  New  England, 
and  had  known  the  Marlowes  by  reputation,  and  received  them  as 
their  guests.  It  was  agreed  between  the  Edmands  and  their  guests 
that  the  Folk-Lore  Society  should  meet  every  Saturday  evening,  and 
that,  on  these  occasions,  the  Marlowes  should  relate  as  a  part  of  the 
exercises  Folk-Lore  stories. 

The  first  of  these  stories  that  was  told  at  the  Saturday  evening 
meetings  was  "  Miraculous  Susan  of  Quaker  Hill."  It  was  told  by 
Grandfather  Marlowe,  and  we  shall  give  it  in  its  place.  Another 
of  these  stories  was  "  Hannah,  Who  Sang  Countre."  It  was  told  by 
Mr.  Marlowe,  who  illustrated  it  by  singing  old-time  tunes.  This  we 
shall  also  give  in  an  interval  between  the  sight-seeing  at  the  Fair. 


CHICAGO    IN    1830. 


CHAPTER   V. 

CHICAGO   AND   ITS    MAKERS— THE   CITY  OF   THE  2oTH   CENTURY. 


HE  first  purpose  of  our  tourists  was  to  see  Chicago, 
the  wonder  of  the  West. 

They  began  at  the  Art  Palace,  where  the  statue  of 
La  Salle  met  their  view  on  the  boulevard,  bringing 
to  mind  those  December  days  of  1681,  when  the  bold 
explorer  coasted  along  the   southern  shore  of  Lake 
Michigan,  and  ascended  the  Chicago  River,  on  his  way  to  the  Missis- 
sippi.    Did  he  dream  on  that  day  that  he  entered  the  Chicago  that 
the  live  city  of  the  West  would  be  there  ? 

There  were  great  arches  of  bridges  between  the  statue  and  the 
Art  Palace,  and  all  the  world  seemed  passing  to  the  railroad  and  the 
boats.  The  Lake  rolled  in  splendor  before  the  towering  buildings, 
but  everything,  the  Art  Palace  included,  seemed  discolored  with 
smoke.  The  doors  of  the  great  Art  Palace  stood  open,  as  it  were,  to 


CHICAGO   AND  ITS  MAKERS. 


IOI 


receive  the  homeless  multitudes,  coming  from  everywhere.  It  was  the 
hospitable  door  of  Chicago. 

It  was  a  short  walk  from  the  Art  Palace  to  the  Auditorium  Build- 
ing, which  is  a  grand  hotel  and  a  theatre,  and  whose  corridors  might 
have  been  halls  of  the  Pharaohs,  they  are  so  dazzling,  airy,  and  beauti- 
ful. Every  one  here  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry.  If  each  one's  life  were 
to  be  fated  to  end  with  the  day,  no  one 
could  be  more  in  a  hurry.  Yet  every  one 
looked  happy ;  it  was  not  an  anxious  hur- 
ry, but  an  inspired  hurry.  New  York  is 
slow  and  Boston  slower,  but  here  is  the 
clock  of  destiny,  and  one  must  do,  ere  it 
strike.  The  Chicagoan  loves  Chicago, 
and  resolves  to  make  it  the  grandest  city 
in  the  world. 

The  dream  is  likely  to  be  fulfilled.  Our 
good  Quaker  friend  said  to  a  boy  in  the 
pillared  waiting-room  of  the  Auditorium  : 

"  My  boy,  how  many  miles  is  it  to 
Boston  ?  " 

The  boy  gave  a  lightning  glance,  gath- 
ered up  his  mouth  for  one  long  breath, 
and  answered :  — 

'Thirty-two  hours  from   Boston  (1150 

miles) ;  twenty-nine  hours  from  Montreal ;  twenty-six  hours  from  New 
York;  twenty-four  hours  from  Philadelphia;  twenty-six  hours  from 
Washington  ;  three  and  a  half  days  from  San  Francisco ;  five  days 
from  the  City  of  Mexico ;  nine  days  from  Queenstown ;  ten  days 
from  Paris  ;  fifteen  days  from  Rome,  and  sixteen  from  St.  Petersburg. 
Are  there  any  other  places  that  you  would  like  to  inquire  about  ?  " 

"  The  land  of  the  ocean  !   No,  not  now.     You  seem  to  know  all 
about  the  world.     Who  is  your  father,  my  lad  ? " 


LA    SALLE. 


102  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  Daddyism  don't  count  in  Chicago.     You  came  from  the  East." 

"  Yes,  I  came  from  the  East;  and  how  might  a  man  from  the  East 
best  see  Chicago  ?  " 

"Take  an  elevator — don't  you  know  the  dining-room  here  is  up 
top,  and  the  roof  sweeps  the  city,  the  Lake,  the  Fair  and  everything! " 

'•'Take  an  elevator?"  said  our  sedate  friend.  "I  never  take  any; 
I  favor  temperance  principles." 

"  Oh,  then  take  the  elevator.     There,  it  is  running  now!" 

"  How  many  inhabitants  do  you  claim,  my  lad  ?  " 

The  answer  was  as  extraordinary  as  the  first :  — 

"  South  Division,  half  a  million  and  more ;  West  Division,  half  a 
million  and  more  ;  North  Division,  quarter  of  a  million  and  more.  I 
reckon  we  are  about  two  million  in  all.  Can't  keep  the  run  of  the 
census  here." 

"  My  boy,  if  I  should  conclude  to  go  to  Lincoln's  tomb  at  Spring- 
field, what  road  would  I  take  ?  " 

The  answer  was  more  amazing  still :  — 

"  Oh,  take  the  C.  A.  or  the  A.  T.  S.  F.  and  change,  or  the  C.  A. 
and  change,  or  the  C.  I.  If  you  take  the  C.  A.  or  the  A.  T.  S.  F.  or 
the  C.  I.,  you  will  have  to  change  in  this  way  "  —  Here  the  boy  began 
such  a  distortion  of  the  alphabet  as  could  only  be  heard  in  a  primary 
school. 

"  Do  you  know  all  the  railroads  that  go  out  of  Chicago  ? "  asked 
the  Quaker. 

"  Most  of  them.  There  's  the  A.  T.  and  S.  F;  the  B.  and  O. ;  the 
C.  B.  and  Q. ;  the  C.  E.  and  L.  S. ;  the  C.  M.  and  S.  P.;  the  C.  R.  I. 
and  P.;  the  C.  S.  P.  and  K.  C. ;  the  C.  and  A.;  the  C.  and  E. ;  the 
C.  and  E.  I.;  the  C.  and  G.  T. ;  the  C.  and  N. ;  the  C.  and  N.  P.; 
the  C.  and  S. ;  the  C.  and  W.  M. ;  the  C.  and  W.  I. ;  the  C.  C.  C.  and 
S.  L.,  which  is  the  Big  4;  the  I.  C. ;  the  L.  S.  and  M.  C. ;  the  M. 
C;  the  M.  L.  S.  and  W. ;  the  M.  P.;  the  N.  Y.  C.  and  St.  L.  Nickle 
Plate;  the  P.  F.  W.  and  W. ;  and  the  W.  C." 


CHICAGO  AND  ITS  MAKERS. 


105 


"  If  you  wish  to  go  to  Springfield  by  a  zigzag,  picturesque  kind  of 
route,  take  the  —  "  Here  the  boy  went  off  into  the  alphabet  again. 

41 1  am  afraid  I  would  never  get  there,"  said  our  good  friend,  with 
uplifted  hands.  "  I  think  that  we  have  about  concluded  to  go  to  Lin- 
coln Park." 

The  party  did  not  find  this  an  easy  matter.  They  went  to  State 
Street;  the  sidewalks  were  thronged  with  hurrying  crowds;  high 
buildings  towered  in  the  sunny  and  smoky  air. 

"  If  I  were  to  come  to  Chicago,"  said  the  confused  Quaker,  "  I 
would  go  into  the  business  of  collars  and  cuffs.  Mine  were  clean 
when  I  started  out  —  just  see  them  now  !  But  everybody  looks  clean; 
how  do  they  do  it  ?  " 

After  many  directions  from  policemen,  the  party  found  the  car 
for  the  famous  park  which  is  the  delight  and  summer  rest  of  Chicago. 
How  lovely  it  was  !  The  great  bronze  statue  of  Lincoln  arose  before 
the  province  of  greenery  ;  the  Lake  rippled  near,  expanding  in  purple 
glory.  They  hurried  toward  the  Zoological  Gardens,  which  are 
among  the  finest  in  the  world.  The  parks  and  park  lands  of  Chicago 
are  many,  and  cover  nearly  two  thousand  acres.  But  Lincoln  Park, 
with  its  lake  view  and  animal  shows,  has  a  charm  that  exceeds,  all 
others,  and  not  the  least  of  its  attractions  is  "  Admission  Free." 

On  their  return  from  the  park,  where  they  visited  the  Grant 
Statue,  the  flower  gardens,  and  the  wonderful  collections  of  tamed 
animals,  the  party  went  to  the  Auditorium  Building,  and  looked  down 
from  the  top  on  the  city  as  it  lay  spread  out  in  the  sunset.  How 
different  was  the  scene  from  the  fort  and  little  hamlet  in  1830  !  The 
city  practically  filled  the  view. 

The  Post-office  and  Masonic  Buildings  are  works  of  marvellous 
strength  and  beauty  ;  the  stranger  would  pause  in  awe  before  them, 
did  not  the  crowd  at  all  hours  of  the  day  hurry  him  on.  One  cannot 
conveniently  stop  to  talk  on  the  streets  in  the  activity  of  this  rapid 
city.  The  Women's  Temple  is  one  of  the  noblest  structures  ever 


io6 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE  CITY. 


erected   for  benevolent  work  by  women,  and  the   Produce   Exchange 
fittingly  expresses  its  purpose. 

The  Palmer  House  is  associated  with  the  history  of  the  city  since 


PRODUCE    EXCHANGE. 


the  fire,  as  few  other  buildings  have  been.  There  are  few  business 
men  in  the  country  who  have  not  at  some  time  stopped  there.  The 
beautiful  private  residence  of  its  proprietor  is  famous  for  its  hospi- 


CHICAGO  AND  ITS  MAKERS. 


tality,  and  is  as  unique  as  it  is  noble.  The  women  of  America  are 
proud  of  the  record  of  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer,  and  are  glad  that  a  woman 
of  such  public  spirit  can  organize  her  plans  in  such  a  liberal  home. 
The  private  residences  of  Mr.  Kimball,  Mr.  McVeach,  and  the  long 
procession  of  mansions  on  Michigan  Avenue,  display  an  air,  not  of 


MR.  POTTER  PALMER. 


MRS.  POTTER  PALMER. 


ease  and  rest,  but  of  purpose  and  energy.  They  picture  the  spirit  of 
the  times. 

There  are  few  public  buildings  in  Europe  that  display  a  more 
massive  grandeur  than  the  City  Hall.  It  looks  like  a  colossal  palace 
reared  upon  lofty  foundations,  and  one  from  abroad  would  think  that 
such  a  structure  would  have  cost  the  labor  of  a  score  of  years.  The 
city  is  full  of  buildings  from  eight  to  sixteen  or  more  stories  high,  that 
look  like  towers. 

The  Union  Stock- Yards  here  are  the  largest  in  the  world.  They 
cover  three  hundred  and  fifty  or  more  acres  with  more  than  eight 
miles  of  streets,  —  a  city  of  cattle.  More  than  $200,000,000  worth  of 
live-stock  are  sold  here  annually. 


no 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


Chicago  is  the  world's  granary.  Her  grain-elevators  would  make 
a  city.  She  handles  some  150,000,000  bushels  of  grain  a  year. 

The  Chicago  River  in  1830  flowed  clear  and  full  in  view.  It  is  now 
shut  into  bridges,  and  is  hardly  noticed.  The  arrival  and  clearances 
of  vessels  in  Chicago  harbor  greatly  exceed  those  of  New  York,  and 

are  probably  as  many 

as  or  more  than  at  the 
ports  of  New  York 
and  Boston  combined. 
The  lofty  and 
substantial  buildings 
greatly  interested  the 
good  Quaker,  and  on 
returning  to  the  wait- 
ing-room of  the  Au- 
ditorium, he  met  the 
bright  boy  who  had 
given  him  such  lumi- 
nous instructions  in 
regard  to  the  rail- 
roads. 

RESIDENCE    OF    MR.    MCVEACH.  Well,   1  lOUtta  the 

park,"  said  our  friend. 

"  Took  the  N.  C.  S.  or  W.  S.  cable,  I  suppose  ? "  said  the  boy. 

"I  think  so;  the  X.  Y.  Z.  or  Q.  R.  S.  T.  it  might  have  been.  I 
like  that  park  ;  it  is  like  the  story  that  had  no  end.  What  are  your 
very  tallest  houses  here,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  There 's  the  Ashland  Block,  sixteen  stones  high ;  this  Audito- 
rium, seventeen  stories  high  ;  C.  C.  B.,  thirteen  stories  high  ;  C.  M. 
B.,  fourteen  stories  high ;  M.  B.,  sixteen  stories  high  ;  and  the  Masonic 
Building,  twenty  stones  high." 

"  There,  there,  that  will  do  —  twenty  stories  high  !  " 


CHICAGO  AND  ITS  MAKERS. 


RESIDENCE    OF    MR.   K1MBALL. 


"  There   are    many  others,   sir ;    the    U.   B.,  sixteen    stories   high, 

and  —  " 

"  You  need  n't  go  over  the 

alphabet    any    more.     Why, 

boy,  it  would  make  me  crazy 

to  live  here.     My  house  is  n't 

but  two  stories  high  ;    it   is 

an  A.  B.  C.  D.  house  in  the 

perpendicular  style  of  archi- 
tecture." 

The    party  went    to   the 

great  pork-packing  establish- 
ment.    Here    the   poor   pig 

has  hardly  a  chance  to  squeal 

between  his    easy  rural   life 

and     sausage     meat.      The 

name  of  Mr.  P.  D.  Armour  is  associated  with  an  industry,  or  business, 

such    as    the    good    New    England  farmer  never  dreamed   of   in   his 

simple  life,  when  two  pigs, 
killed  after  an  heroic  strug- 
gle, were  the  supply  for  his 
frugal  pork  barrel.  Corn, 
beef,  and  pork  are  supply 
cities  by  themselves. 

The  railroad  stations,  too, 
would  constitute  a  city. 
What  wonder  that  the  boys 
say  C.  B.  Q.  and  I.  C.  and 
C.  N.  W.  and  C.  S.  M. 
W.  D.! 
The  city  stretches  into  suburbs,  which  themselves  widen  away 

and  exhibit  the  outlines  of  new  suburbs.     The  Hyde   Park  suburb, 

8 


HIGH    BUILDINGS    IN   CHICAGO. 


114  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Pullman,  and  other  towns  that  make  a  semi-circle,  are  in  themselves 
famous.     The  Mississippi  Valley,  the  old  East,  the  great  lake  country 

of  the  North,  —  all  seem  to  focus  here. 
Chicago  will  be  the  City  of  the  Twen- 
tieth Century. 

The  eastern  and  the  old  world  tour- 
ists come  here  with  narrow  views  and 
criticism,  to  which  the  true  Chicagoan 
has  neither  the  time  nor  the  interest  to 
so  much  as  listen.  When  this  type  of 
man  enters:  into  the  spirit  of  Chicago, 
and  feels  the  new  life,  he  often  becomes 
wonderfully  enthusiastic.  He  lives  for 
the  future,  and  under  new  horizons ; 
his  soul  becomes  prophetic ;  he  feels 
that  the  age  of  humanity  is  at  hand,  and 

A  TEN-STORY  HOUSE.  i  >  •         ,  .... 

that  the  city  by  the  great  inland  sea  is 
to  be  the  capital ;  and  he  merges  himself  in  the  multitude,  and  his 


A    PORK-PACKING    ESTABLISHMENT. 


private   interest  becomes  the  good  of  the  whole.     All  of  the   enter- 
prises are   his ;    all  of  the   builders  are  building  for  him.     He  has  a 


CHICAGO  AND  ITS  MAKERS. 


part  in  every  new  structure,  enter- 
prise, and  beautiful  house.  One 
cannot  understand  this  spirit  until 
he  has  felt  it. 

The  men  who  lead,  inspire  him. 
Davis,  Palmer,  Pullman,  Armour, 
the  grain-merchants,  the  public 
officers,  are  self-made  men.  In- 
vention and  energy  are  here  re- 
warded. The  whole  spirit  of  the 
place  says  "  Advance  ;  "  progress 


MR.    P.   D.    ARMOUR. 

proclaims  "  I  will."  Force  and 
Chicago  are  one. 

Go  to  the  Temple,  the  scene 
of  the  activities  of  the  Woman's 
Christian  Temperance  Union. 
It  cost  a  million  of  dollars. 
It  is  the  centre  of  the  work 
of  the  largest  organization  of 
women  in  the  world ;  of  ten 
thousand  moral  reform  socie- 
ties in  the  country.  All  its 
directors  are  women. 

Glance  at  the  life  of  its 
President,  Miss  Frances  Eliza- 
beth Willard  :  of  New  England 

O 

ancestry,  educated  at  Oberlin, 
taking  a  front  rank  as  an  edu- 


n6 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


cator,   living   now  on  the    platform,  and  wherever  she  goes   carrying 
her  pen   in    hand.     She  projected  the  Woman's    Christian    Temper- 


RESIDENCE    OF    MR.   POTTER   PALMER. 

ance   Union,  is  the   leader  of  the  White  Cross  work,  and  one  of  the 
leaders  of  the  National  Council  of  Women.     She  has   set  her   New 

England  character  everywhere  in  the 
West.  She  represents  what  the  true 
Chicago  woman  means  to  be  to  her  age 
and  generation.  What  does  such  an 
example  say  to  girls?  What  to  all  as- 
pirators towards  a  worthy  life  ? 

Stand  before  the  hospitable  doors  of 
the  castle-like  mansion  where  Mrs.  Potter 
Palmer  has  been  accustomed  to  receive 
all  worthy  workers  in  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity and  progress.  One  is  proud  to 
feel,  in  the  atmosphere  of  such  a  place, 
that  in  America  queens  are  born,  and  that 
their  social  thrones  are  won  by  nobility.  That  woman  and  her  friends 


.MK.    PULLMAN. 


CHICAGO  AND  ITS  MAKERS. 


117 


gave  to  the  Exposition  a  soul,  or  made  the  White  City  voice  what 
is  spiritual.  Such  women  put  reform  into  stone  and  called  it  the 
Temple.  They  will  one  day  begin  a  daily  journalism  that  shall  lead 
all  that  is  best  in  the  mind  and  heart  of  mankind. 

Go  to  Pullman,  some  ten  miles  away.  It  has  been  called  the 
model  town  of  the  working-men.  What  does  such  a  suburb  say  to 
the  American  youth  ?  Mr.  George 
M.  Pullman  once  rode  on  an  old- 
fashioned  sleeping-car.  He  found 
it  a  hard  experience.  He  did  not 
sleep.  But  out  of  that  experience 
he  invented.  The  Pullman  Sleep- 
ing Car  was  the  result.  People 
now  travel  and  sleep.  "  Invent 
what  is  needed,"  so  says  Pullman. 

Mr.  Pullman  began  life  as  a 
clerk  in  a  country  store.  He  now 
owns  a  town  and  employs  fifteen  _;-  -,: 

thousand    people.      "  Answer   the 

RESIDENCE    OF    MR.   PULLMAN. 

world's   needs,"  says  the   spirit  of 

the  thrifty   town,  "  and  you    shall   be  supplied  in   the  supply." 

The  builders  of  the  expanding  city  by  the  Lake  were"  poor  boys. 
Invention,  energy,  honesty  made  their  success.  Like  Dr.  Livingston, 
when  he  graduated  from  Glasgow  University,  most  of  them  can  say, — 
"  I  never  had  a  dollar  that  I  did  not  earn !  "  They  do  not  merely 
exist,  —  they  live.  When  they  have  passed  their  generation  they  will 
have  left  behind  them  a  new  creation  of  life. 


BYZANTINE    DOOR    OF    THE    TRANSPORTATION    BUILDING. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE    MARLOWES'    FIRST    DAY   AT  THE    FAIR.     THE   MOST  USEFUL 

THING   AT  THE   FAIR. 

[AKING  a  Cottage  Grove  car,  the  Marlowes  entered 
the  Fair  Grounds  on  one  beautiful  summer  morning, 

O 

by  the  long  way  of  the  Midway  Plaisance,  in  search 
of  the  Funniest  Thing,  the  Most  Useful  Thing,  and 
the  Grandest  Thing. 

The  sky  was  as  blue  as  the  Lake,  and  the  Lake  as 
blue  as  the  sky  on  this  morning,  and  the  sun  filled  the  sky  with  living 
light,  and  under  it  shone  the  White  City,  the  most  beautiful  city  on 
which  the  sun  ever  shone,  —  the  city  of  all  the  ideals  of  the  past  and 
the  hopes  of  the  future,  the  first  city  of  the  new  order  of  the  world. 
They  passed  the  turn-style,  and  looking  round,  saw  the  word  exit. 
"  I  will  tell  you  a  funny  story  which  I  heard  at  the  boarding- 
house  in  regard  to  that  word,"  said  young  Ephraim.  "  There  was  an 
Illinois  boy  who  had  earned  money  enough  to  go  to  the  Fair,  and  fifty 
cents  to  go  in,  and  he  planned  to  enter  early  and  stay  late,  and  so  see 
all  of  the  Fair  in  one  day.  He  paid  his  fifty  cents  for  a  ticket,  and 


THE  MARLOWES'  FIRST  DAY  AT  THE  FAIR.  121 

passed  through  the  turn-style,  and  looked  up  and  read  '  E-x-i-t.'  *  Does 
it  cost  anything  to  go  in  there  ? '  he  asked  of  an  officer.  '  Of  course 
not,'  answered  the  officer.  '  Then  I  must  see  it,'  he  said ;  '  I  want  to 
see  everything.'  And  he  saw  it" 

"  I  do  not  regard  that  as  a  funny  story,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe.  "  I 
could  hardly  think  of  anything  more  pathetic.  How  that  poor  boy 
must  have  felt  when  he  found  himself  on  the  outside.  It  would  be 
like  entering  a  gate  of  Paradise,  and  going  back  by  some  by-way  into 
the  world  again.  I  shall  not  put  that  among  the  funny  stories  in  my 
note-book." 

The  long  Plaisance,  which  was  an  avenue  where  lived  nearly  all  of 
the  nations  of  the  world  in  harmony,  swept  before  them,  and  over  it 
gleamed  the  towers  and  domes  of  the  White  City. 

If  young  Ephraim's  story  was  pathetic  rather  than  funny,  an 
incident  occurred  at  their  first  journey  up  the  Plaisance  which  was 
comical.  , 

A  street  performer  was  taking  gold  crowns  or  sovereigns  out  of 
his  nose. 

The  trio  stopped  to  witness  the  wonderful  feat.  When  the 
wonder-worker  wanted  a  gold  piece,  he  had  only  to  tap  his  nose,  and 
out  it  would  come. 

Old  Ephraim,  whose  quiet  Quaker  life  had  not  made  him  much 
acquainted  with  such  tricks,  looked  on  with  curious  surprise. 

"  Where  do  those  gold  pieces  come  from  ? "  he  asked. 

"Out  of  my  nose!"  said  the  juggler.     "Don't  you  see?" 

"  It  does  look  so,  but  thee  can't  trust  experience  always,  so  Kant 
says.  Let  me  see  thee  do  that  again." 

"Here  you  see  the  gold  pieces  in  my  hand.  See!  Now  I  will 
close  my  hand.  See  !  Now  the  coins  are  in  my  nose.  You  can't  see. 
Now  I  will  take  them  out  again.  See  !  " 

He  did. 

"  That  is  a  very  wonderful  thing  to  do,  my  friend.     I  never  saw 


122 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


GERMAN    VILLAGE. 


the  like  of  it  before.  Suppose  now  you  put  those  gold  pieces  into  my 
pocket  here,  and  see  if  you  can  take  them  out  again  ! " 

The  man  of  wonders  stared,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Na,  na.  Where  you  come  from  ?  You  be  one  Yankee.  Goot 
day!" 

The  Plaisance  was  thronging  with  bright,  happy  faces.  Orientals 
mingled  with  the  people  from  all  the  States.  Our  trio  stopped  at  the 
Indian  Village,  and  thence  went  to  the  Dahomey  Village.  All  the 
world  seemed  to  be  at  home,  and  prosperous,  happy,  and  hospitable. 
Here  were  Austrian  houses;  yonder  Chinese  pavilions,  like  golden  air. 
Along  one  side  of  the  avenue  ran  a  sleighing  track,  where  swift  sleighs 


FERRIS    WHEEL 


THE  MARLOWES'   FIRST  DAY  AT  THE  FAIR. 


125 


CAPTIVE    BALLOON. 


glided  over  a  snow-scene  under  the  burning  sun.  Here  was  the 
Roman  Village ;  yonder  the  Tower  of  Babel  loomed  over  the  whole. 
Here  was  a  Moorish  palace,  yonder  Dutch  settlements ;  here  an 
ostrich  farm,  there  Asian  and  African  bazars,  and  mid  these  neigh- 
boring families  of  the  world,  a  glory  of  mosques  and  minarets. 

The  trio  hurried  on  towards  the  gleaming  minarets,  the  captive 
balloon,  and  the  Ferris  Wheel. 

They  stopped  at  the  Ferris  Wheel,  and  looked  up  into  the  air. 

"  That  is  the  greatest  merry-go-round  in  all  the  world,"  said  a  clever- 
looking  visitor. 

"  Let  us  go  over,"  said  young  Ephraim  to  his  father. 

"  Had  we  better  go  over  now,  or  had  we  better  wait  until  another 
day  ? " 


126 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


LOOKING    SOUTHEAST    FROM    THE    FERRIS    WHEEL. 

"  Now,"  said  young  Ephraim. 

"  Now,"  said  his  grandfather.  "  I  always  wanted  to  see  the  world, 
and  I  shall  when  I  circle  sky  in  those  hanging  cars." 

The  trio  entered  one  of  the  cars,  and  sat  down  in  the  chairs. 

"  It  is  just  like  a  room,"  said  old  Mr.  Marlowe.  "  I  do  believe  that 
we  are  moving  up." 

Slowly  the  earth  began,  as  it  seemed,  to  descend,  and  they  found 
themselves  in  the  air.  The  horizon  grew ;  the  great  blue  lake,  the 
White  City  in  dazzling  whiteness,  moved  into  view,  and  then  sank 
downward;  the  smoky  city  of  Chicago  rose,  and  fell  into  the  shadows. 
Slowly,  slowly  the  car  moved  up  towards  the  sky. 


THE   MARLOWES*   FIRST  DAY  AT  THE  FAIR. 


129 


HAGENBACK  \S    MUSEUM. 


"  We  shall  see  the  whole  earth  soon,"  said  Grandfather  Marlowe. 

But  no  —  the  car  was  descending,  and  Chicago,  the  White  City, 
and  the  Lake  and  the  merry  Plaisance,  all  came  back  again.  They 
went  over  a  second  time.  The  stranger  was  right,  —  it  was  the 
greatest  merry-go-round  in  all  the  world. 

As  they  passed  the  wheel  the  wonders  grew.  They  stopped  to  see 
the  Hagenback  menageries,  or  animal  shows.  In  the  arena  was  a  lion 
that  drove  a  chariot  and  rode  on  horseback.  Grandfather  Marlowe 
said  that  he  disapproved  of  all  such  "doin's;"  but  his  opinion  grew 
out  of  sympathy  for  the  horse. 

Near  the  Blarney  Castle  and  Irish  Village  was  an  old-time  New 

9 


I  30 


7JGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 


IRISH    VILLAGE,  —  DONEGAL    CASTLE. 


England  cottage,  where  meals  were  served  in  colonial  style ;  and  across 
the  way  was  a  model  working-men's  house,  after  which  pattern  172,000 
houses  had  been  built  in  the  suburbs  of  Philadelphia,  by  a  wise  and 
worthy  building  association.  These  houses  cost  about  twenty- 
two  hundred  dollars,  and  were  paid  for  out  of  small  savings,  through 
co-operative  banks  and  like  means.  The  purpose  of  the  noble 
Philadelphia  Society  was  to  make  good  citizens  by  such  homes.  It 
requires  character  to  save  money ;  it  forms  prudent  habits  to  lay 
aside  money  for  a  home  in  early  life. 

The  trio  visited  this  model  house.     It  was  the  perfection  of  home- 
like beauty  and  convenience. 


THE  MARLOWES'   FIRST  DA  Y  AT   THE   FAIR. 


HORTICULTURAL    BUILDING. 


"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe,  "  that  I  have  found  in  this  house 
the  most  useful  thing  at  the  Fair.  One  would  have  to  travel  far  to 
meet  with  anything  more  useful  than  that.  The  most  useful  thing 
on  earth  is  a  home.  I  think  that  I  have  found  one  thing  to  report  to 
our  Society,  and  I  have  not  seen  the  Fair  yet. 

"  Every  city,"  he  added,  "  ought  to  do  what  Philadelphia  has  done, 
if  it  would  make  good  citizens.  Think  of  it,  172,000  houses  for 
working-people,  like  that!  The  millennium  must  be  near!" 

"  I  think,"  said  Grandfather  Marlowe,  "  that  that  is  the  most  useful 
thing  that  we  shall  see.  It  is  worth  coming  all  the  way  here  just  to 
see  that." 

"  But,"  said  young  Ephraim,  "  that  is  the  most  simple  thing  we 
have  met." 


132  ZIGZAG'  JOURNEYS  /Ar   THE    WHITE    CITY. 

They  went  out  of  the  house.     The  avenue  seemed  swarming. 

*  o 

"  Pretty  much  all  of  the  world  must  be  here  by  this  time,"  said 
Grandfather  Marlowe,  "  and  there  seems  to  be  more  coming.  I  declare 
it  does  beat  ail !  " 

The  Ferris  Wheel  was  turning  in  the  bright  air;  the  villages  were 
filled  with  shouts  and  music. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  great  excitement  among  the  crowds  near. 
An  Oriental  wedding  procession  was  coming  out  into  the  avenue  from 
the  "  Street  in  Cairo." 

The  trio  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  wonder.  "  Let  us  go  into  the 
Street  of  Cairo,"  said  young  Ephraim. 

"  No,  not  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe  ;  "  I  have  been  reading  about 
that  street :  we  must  take  a  whole  day  for  that."  The  trio  passed 
under  the  long  dark  bridge.  Slowly  from  the  shadow  they  entered 
the  White  City. 

Ephraim  Marlowe  the  Quaker  stopped  and  stamped  three  times 
on  the  ground  as  the  dazzling  splendor  rose  before  him.  He  lifted 
his  hand,  and  said,  "  Manton,  Manton,_/~0^/>zV/s  sake  !  " 

They  passed  the  Woman's  Building,  and  the  Transportation  Build- 
ing with  its  dazzling  entrance,  which  looked  as  though  it  were  a 
sunrise  of  jewels,  and  came  to  the  Administration  Building,  whose 
pale  gold  dome  shone  like  a  vision  about  to  vanish  into  the  air.  They 
mounted  the  steps,  turned,  and  looked  down  the  Court  of  Honor, 
towards  the  Peristyle  and  Lake  Michigan. 

The  three  stood  in  silence.  Mr.  Marlowe  laid  his  hand  on  his 
father's  shoulder,  and  shed  tears.  His  son  took  him  by  the  hand. 

The  white  walls  of  the  Court  of  Honor,  with  their  heroic  statues, 
and  allegories  in  plaster,  shone  in  the  sun  in  blinding  glory.  Just 
below  in  the  lagoon  was  the  most  beautiful  fountain  on  earth.  At  the 
end  of  the  lagoon  rose  the  golden-hued  Statue  of  Liberty,  and  beyond 
it  the  most  beautiful  and  majestic  structure  in  all  the  world,  called 
the  Peristyle,  white  as  glistening  marble,  and  surmounted  by  the 


THE  MARLOWES"  FIRST  DAY  AT  THE  FAIR. 


135 


Quadriga.  Through  the  white  arches  of  the  Peristyle  and  its  proces- 
sion of  heroic  statues  lay  the  Lake,  blue  as  a  June  sky,  and  covered 
with  boats,  vessels,  and  steamers.  Multiform  and  many-colored  flags 
bloomed  like  flowers  over  and  against  all  these  colossal  walls  of  white. 
Congresses  of  statued  heroes  were  here  and  there  assembled  in  the 
niches  of  immortality.  Overhead  rose  the 
white  allegories  of  the  elements,  controlled 
and  uncontrolled.  Bands  played.  Tens  of 
thousands  of  people  darkened  the  walks  and 
avenues.  There  was  happiness  everywhere; 
continuance  was  all  that  was  wanting.  The 
trio  stood  there  amazed,  bewildered,  and 
unable  for  a  time  to  speak. 

Grandfather    Marlowe    was    the    first    to 
break  the  silence. 

"  Let  us  go   away,  and   find  some   little 
corner  and  die.     That  is  how  I  feel." 

"  Let  us  sit  down  on  the  steps,"  said   Mr. 
Marlowe,  "  and  thank  God  that  we  are  alive." 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  Liberal  Arts   Build- 
ing," said  young  Ephraim. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  see  any  exhibits  to- 
day," said   Mr.    Marlowe.     "  I  shall  never  again  behold  a  vision   like 
this,  -- I  could  gaze  for  weeks  upon  it." 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  that  is  wanting,"  said  Grandfather 
Marlowe. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Marlowe. 

u  A  white-bordered  fla^  !  " 

O 

"  They  may  raise  one  here  some  day,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe. 

"  I  hope  that  I  may  live  to  see  that  sight,"  said  the  aged  Quaker; 
"  to  me  it  would  be  a  sign  of  the  Second  Coming.  I  could  die  con- 
tent could  I  see  the  sight." 


ATLAS. 


136  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

They  went  to  the  Liberal  Arts  Building,  and  looked  in  upon  its 
forty  acres  of  floors.  They  then  passed  down  to  the  long  wharf,  and 
sat  down  to  rest  on  the  seats  of  the  movable  Sidewalk,  in  which  they 
might  sit  for  hours  for  five  cents  each,  and  go  around  and  around  in 
the  cool  breezes  of  the  Lake.  Here  they  took  the  famous  "  whale- 
back  "  steamer  for  the  City.  They  never  had  passed  a  day  like  that ! 
No  one  ever  passed  such  a  day  as  one's  first  day  at  the  Exposition, 
and  none  ever  will  again. 

The  Past  emptied  itself  there ;  the  Future  anticipated  there 
her  glory.  The  Fair!  the  Fair!  It  was  all  the  world  was,  is,  or  ever 
could  be. 

"  Father,"  said  young  Ephraim,  "  across  whose  mind  did  the  con- 
ception of  the  White  City  first  pass  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  We  must  ask  Judge  Bonney,"  said  Grandfather  Marlowe. 

When  they  asked  this  information,  they  were  told  that  the  White 
City  was  the  product  of  the  minds  of  an  assembly  of  artists,  each  of 
whom  promised  to  give  up  in  his  own  work  "  anything  that  might 
interfere  with  the  beauty  of  the  whole." 

"  What  a  lesson  !  "  said  the  old  Quaker.  "  If  all  people  would  do 
that,  how  beautiful  all  the  world  would  be  !  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe,  "  that  I  have  found  the  most  useful 
exhibit  at  the  Fair." 

"  You  still  think  that  it  is  the  Quaker  City  house  ? "  said  Grand- 
father Marlowe. 

"  I  do." 

"  And  if  I  could  only  see  the  white -bordered  flag  floating  over  the 
Court  of  Honor,"  said  the  Quaker,  "  I  could  show  you  the  grandest 
sight  on  earth." 


CHAPTER    VII. 


THE    FUNNIEST   THING  AT  THE    FAIR. 

HE  next  day  the  sun  rose  glorious  on  the  blue   Lake 
and  White  City.     Our  trio  went  in  the  morning  to 
visit   Lincoln   Park,  but  returned  at  noon,  and  took 
the  Cottage   Grove  car  for  the  Fair.     They  entered 
the  grounds  again  by  the  way  of  the  long  avenue 
of    the     Plaisance,    and    there 
they    found    all    the  world  at  home  again. 
They  went  to  the  Street  in  Cairo. 
As  they  passed  in  they  noticed  a  young  col- 
ored man  and  woman,  who  were  talking  so  loudly 
as  to  attract  attention.     The  young  woman  was 
gayly  dressed  indeed.      Her  hat  was  conspicuous 
even  in   the  Street  of  Cairo.      It  was  a  kind  of 
pyramid  of  feathers,  flowers,  and  streamers.      Her 
dress  was  as  Oriental,  and  she  evidently  carried  a 
very  happy  heart.     The  young    man    looked    as 
happy ;    his  face  shone. 

An  Oriental  wedding  procession  was  moving 
through  the  street,  and  in  it  an  Asiatic  lady  was 
riding  on  a  camel. 

How  proud  she  looked,  swaying  to  and  fro,  her 
body  in  graceful  motion  with  that  of  the  camel ! 

"Wot  is  that?"  asked  the  young  colored 
woman  of  one  of  the  oruards. 


U'ATEK    TOWKR. 


138 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 


"  That  is  the  ship  of  the  desert." 

"  Does  it  make  one  sick  to  sail  in  clat  dare  ship?' 

"  No,  no;  don't  you  see  how  she  rides?     That  is  a  bridal  party." 

"  I  am  a  bride ;  we  is.  That  is  wot  we 
are,"  said  the  young  woman,  happy  hearted. 
The  groom  looked  radiant. 

The  flags   were    flying ;    the   music  was 


playing ;  the  bazaars 
were  all  life  and  gay- 
ety. 

The  young  colored 
woman    looked    envi- 
ously on   the    golden 
trappings  of  the  pro- 
LINCOLN  PARK.  cession,  and  said,  with 

a  shadow  of  despond- 
ency, "  She  outdoes  me,  she  does.  I  'd  like  to  ride  on  dat  dare 
camel  mysel'." 

"  You  can  do  so,"  said  a  listener.     "  Many  people  make  their  wed- 
ding tour  through  the  Street  of  Cairo  on  the  camel." 
The  young  woman  looked  happy  indeed. 


THE   FUNNIEST   THING   AT  THE   FAIR. 


141 


DAMASCAN   SWOROSMEX. 


The  procession  with  its  gay  music  and  trappings  broke  up  at  last, 
and  the  tall  camel  came  to  a  place  near  the  gate  and  knelt  down  on  a 
mat  in  obedience  to  his  keeper. 

"  Who  wants  to  make  a  wedding  tour  through  the  Street  of 
Cairo  ?  "  shouted  a  manager. 

"I  —  I  —  I  !  "  answered  the  young  colored  woman,  her  hat  bob- 
bing. A  crowd  gathered  around  the  scene,  a  comical  grin  on  every 
face. 

The  camel  lay  meek,  like  a  great  bundle  of  bones  on  the  mat.  He 
stretched  out  his  long  neck  and  displayed  a  vicious-looking  mouth. 

The  young  woman  mounted  the  saddle,  which  was  easy. 


142  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  You  follow  me,  Ben,"  she  said  to  her  young  husband,  "  I  might 
need  your  obsistence." 

There  could  not  have  been  a  happier  couple  on  earth. 

The  camel  driver  made  a  queer  sound. 

Some  one  shouted,  "  Now  hold  on,  Miss  Dinah,  the  camel  is  going 
to  rise." 

The  camel  did  rise  indeed, —  not  on  his  fore  legs,  but  he  rose  up 
behind,  as  if  his  back  had  been  shot  up  out  of  the  earth. 

"  Dinah  "  grasped  the  saddle,  and  fell  forward,  exclaiming,  "  Holy 
Moses ! "  A  wild  look  came  into  her  face.  Then  the  front  part  of 
the  camel  rose  up,  and  the  sable  bride  found  herself  in  the  air. 

"  Here  yo'  dar,  yo',  let  me  get  off!  Stop!  dis  yere  beast  am  all 
broke  up.  No  lady  can  ride  in  dis  yere  way.  Stop!  Whoa!" 

But  the  camel  driver  did  not  heed.  The  camel  began  his  swaying 
motion,  tossing  Dinah,  if  we  may  so  call  her,  up  into  the  air  in  this 
way,  and  then  in  another.  It  was  such  a  comical  sight  that  the  good- 
natured  crowd  stood  laughing,  each  one  looking  at  the  other,  to  share 
the  humor. 

As  the  camel  passed  down  the  street,  its  upheaving  motions 
increased. 

"  Whoa,  dar !  "  shouted  Dinah.  "  Stop  yer  wobblin'  dar !  Driver, 
stop,  dar,  I  '11  fall  off !  Dar,  I  'm  goin'  right  ober  now !  Whoa !  If 
you  don't  stop  him  I  '11  hollar !  " 

The  camel  gave  a  sidling  lurch,  sending  Dinah  high  up  into  the 
air  with  her  ribbons  and  feathers  flying.  The  crowd  followed  her, 
laughing. 

Down  the  street  she  went,  shouting,  "  Stop,  dar  !  Stop,  dar !  "  tossed 
this  way  and  that,  and  once  threatening  the  philosophical  driver  with 
—  "If  you  don't  stop   dat  dare   critter,  I'll   cry  '  Perlice,   murder!' 
But  the  camel  driver  did  not  heed. 

The  camel  stopped  at  length  and  turned  back  again,  sawing  the 
air.  He  stopped  at  length  at  the  mat.  Dinah's  face  grew  happy 
again,  and  she  laughed  with  the  crowd. 


THE  FUNNIEST  THING  AT  THE  FAIR.  145 

"  Ben,"  she  said,  "  did  n't  I  ride  like  a  queen  ?  " 

She  added,  "  How  am  I  ever  to  get  down  way  up  here  in  de  air? " 

Dinah  surveyed  the  great  crowd.  There  was  an  acre  more  or  less 
of  people,  with  mouths  stretched  from  ear  to  ear.  It  was  not  a  pro- 
voking merriment,  not  sarcastic,  nor  that  mean  mirth  that  ridicules 
weakness.  It  was  all  sympathetic,  good  hearted,  and  good  natured. 

The  camel  driver  gave  another  queer  sound,  somewhat  like  that  at 
the  beginning:  of  the  ride. 

o  o 

Dinah's  question  as  to  how  she  was  to  get  down  was  suddenly 
answered,  and  without  any  ceremony. 

The  camel  seemed  in  an  instant  to  collapse,  and  fall  down  all  in  a 
heap. 

When  Dinah  found  the  high-backed  animal  falling  as  it  were  all 
to  pieces  into  a  heap  of  bones,  her  eyes  turned  white.  But  she  was 
landed  safely.  The  camel  lay  under  her  as  if  dead.  She  stepped 
from  the  saddle.  The  crowd  began  to  cheer.  Poor  Dinah  at  first 
did  not  know  whether  to  be  offended  or  delighted.  She  seized 
the  arm  of  Ben,  and  looked  around  her.  The  crowd  was  laugh- 
ing in  such  a  generous-hearted  way  that  she  wisely  thought  it  best 
to  join  in. 

So  she  shook  her  head,  bridal  hat  and  all,  and  clapped  her  hands, 
and  shouted  "  Giggers !  " 

Up  and  down  the  Street  of  Cairo  ran  the  merriment  and  laughter, 
and  the  happiest-hearted  of  all  were  Dinah  and  Ben.  Peal  on  peal  of 
laughter  rang  out  on  the  sunny  air,  Dinah  leading  the  chorus. 

Manton  Marlowe  looked  down  the  avenue  of  laughing,  friendly, 
kindly  faces,  and  then  turned  to  the  beaming  faces  of  Dinah  and 
Ben. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  on  earth  so  funny  as  that,"  he  said. 

"No!"  said  Grandfather  Marlowe,  "and  that  is  the  funniest  thing 
that  you  will  see  at  the  Fair." 

"I  think  that  you  are  right,"  said   Mr.  Marlowe;  "and   there  is  a 


146  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

lesson  too  in  all  this  light-hearted  scene :  people  may  so  laugh  as  not 
to  give  offence.  Look !  Dinah  is  the  happiest  of  all,  and  there  is  not 
a  person  here  that  would  not  be  glad  to  do  her  a  favor!  How  happy 
is  everything  here  !  The  hearts  of  all  people  here  beat  as  one." 

"  This  is  a  good  world,"  said  the  old  Quaker. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  trio  saw  a  calf  run  away  from  a  mock 
sacrifice.  The  priest  ran  after  him,  and  a  comical  scene  followed ; 
but  Mr.  Marlowe  did  not  change  his  mind  in  regard  to  the  laughing 
crowd  of  the  Street  of  Cairo.  That  was  the  funniest  scene  that  he 
saw  at  the  Fair. 

FOLK-LORE  STORY. 
MIRACULOUS    SUSAN    OF   QUAKER   HILL. 

Imprimis,  the  reader  will  ask  why  the  woman  in  our  title  with  the  simple 
name  of  Susan  was  called  "  miraculous,"  and,  secnndus,  where  is  Quaker  Hill. 
I  will  answer  the  last  question  first,  and  try  to  give  the  reader  a  view  of  the 
picturesque  elevation  where  George  Fox  preached  in  the  glorious  old  Rhode 
Island  of  Governor  Coddington  and  of  Roger  Williams ;  and  as  for  that  said 
useful  woman,  who  was  indispensable  to  the  old  families  of  the  once  Indian 
country  of  Pokonoket  in  the  trying  days  of  dipping  candles,  picking  live 
geese,  and  at  "  killing-time,"  our  story  will  seek  to  portray  the  one  marvellous 
and  mysterious  event  of  her  otherwise  uneventful  life. 

I  should  say  that  the  quaint,  plain  Quaker  meeting-house  on  the  historic 
elevation  near  Portsmouth,  R.  I.,  is  the  most  interesting  church  in  all  America. 
It  stands  for  the  old  Rhode  Island  principle  of  soul-liberty,  as  set  forth  in 
Roger  Williams's  day  —  and  what  could  stand  for  more  ?  It  is  now  very  much 
what  it  was  two  hundred  years  ago,  when  a  rich  Rhode  Islander  proposed 
to  offer  George  Fox  a  salary  to  remain  on  the  Island  as  preacher,  —  which 
caused  the  good  man  to  flee. 

They  do  not  do  so  now,  to  be  sure,  but  times  have  a  little  changed,  even 
among  the  hillside  farmers  on  the  Garden  Island  of  the  New  World. 

I  recently  attended  a  Friends'  meeting  at  the  quaint,  roomy  church  on 
Quaker  Hill.  The  Narragansett  Bay  rolled  in  the  distance  as  clear  and  blue 
as  when  George  Fox  himself  must  have  beheld  it  in  1671,  or  more  than  two 
hundred  years  ago.  The  Hill  is  still  the  Mecca  of  the  Societies  of  Friends, 
and  may  be  found  on  the  Old  Colony  Railroad  near  Portsmouth,  R.  I.,  some 


w 

CJ 


THE  FUNNIEST  THING  AT  THE  FAIR.  149 

eight  miles  from  Newport,  and  a  few  miles  from  the  Barton-Prescott  house,  of 
historic  fame. 

The  island  was  Aquidneck  when  George  Fox  came  there,  "  a  voice  crying 
in  the  wilderness  of  the  world,"  and  when  Bishop  Berkeley  became  prophetic 
at  Newport,  and  voiced  his  inspiration  in  the  immortal  line,  "  Westward  the 
course  of  empire  takes  its  way." 

There  are  few  spots  on  the  earth  more  serene  and  lovely  than  Quaker  Hill. 
There  is  an  ethereal  beauty  over  the  blue  waterways  and  bountiful  farms,  a 
"  Gulf  Stream  influence  "  it  is  called,  that  seems  almost  spiritual,  and  we  do  not 
wonder  that  the  good  old  Quaker  spirit  should  have  found  its  sympathetic 
atmosphere  here.  After  the  long  past,  the  Gospel  of  the  Inner  Light  and 
universal  Love  is  still  preached  on  the  self-same  serene  hill  of  Portsmouth 
looking  over  to  Mount  Hope,  —  the  ancient  burying-ground  of  the  Indian  race, 
—  the  Narragansett  Bay,  and  the  sinking  sails  of  the  far  sea.  It  is  worth  a 
pilgrimage  to  spend  a  Sabbath  on  Quaker  Hill. 

The  old-time  Newport  Quakers  did  not  keep  holidays,  but  Thanksgiving 
was  always  a  benevolent  day  on  the  thrifty  Quaker  farms  around  the  trans- 
figured hill.  The  mention  of  the  day  recalls  tables  of  luxuries  that,  unhappily, 
are  no  more  seen.  Those  were  the  days  of  apple  dumplings  made  of  Rhode 
Island  greenings,  which  Rhode  Island  mythology  claims  to  have  come  from 
the  original  Garden  of  Eden  ;  of  pandowdy  in  comparison  with  which  the 
modern  apple  pie  merits  little  commendation ;  of  No  Cake,  rightly  named, 
for  it  consisted  of  parched  corn  so  deftly  cooked  that  it  floated  white  on  milk; 
of  plum  porridge,  hot  and  cold;  of  hasty  puddings  with  toothsome  sauces; 
of  bannocks ;  of  whit-pot ;  of  all  kinds  of  game,  —  wild  geese,  teal,  partridges, 
and  quail ;  of  pound-cake  that  induced  pipes  and  fireside  slumbers  and  dreams 
such  as  never  haunted  the  self-denying  soul  of  George  Fox.  The  old  Quakers 
of  Portsmouth  were  good  livers,  but  they  shared  all  they  had  with  every  one. 

Blessed  are  the  graves  with  their  mossy  stones  around  the  queer  church  on 
old  Quaker  Hill!  The  precisianers  here  lived  quiet  lives,  but  their  principles 
of  soul-liberty  emancipated  the  world.  The  little  square  panes  in  the  gray 
meeting-house  windows,  to  a  student  of  life,  are  more  than  all  the  rose  hues 
of  the  lights  of  Cologne  Cathedral.  It  is  the  soul  of  things  that  is  great,  — and 
great  souls  held  their  visions  here. 

I  vividly  recall  the  whortleberry  and  blackberry  pastures  of  Portsmouth, 
where  "Miraculous  Susan"  used  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  July 
and  August,  gathering  berries  for  the  Newport  market.  I  can  see  the  old 
woman  now  as  she  used  to  pass  with  her  baskets  and  tin  pails,  and  her  bottle  of 
cold  coffee  for  lunch. 


150  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY, 

I  used  sometimes  to  go  with  her,  and  when  she  had  filled  her  baskets  with 
berries  she  would  help  me  fill  mine.  "  It  is  what  we  do  for  other  folks  that 
makes  life  pleasant,"  she  often  said. 

The  children  used  to  start  back  with  awe  into  the  roadside  alders  and  witch- 
hazels  as  they  saw  her,  and  one  of  the  school-group  would  be  likely  to  say: 

"That's  her,  —  the  'ooman  over  whose  head  the  miracle-ring  appeared, 
right  in  the  church,  hanging  in  the  air  on  nothing.  And  some  said  it  was 
made  of  silver,  and  some  said  it  was  made  of  gold,  and  some  of  pearls.  But 
they  found  her  out.  She  did  n't  mean  it.  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  was  —  won't  you 
never,  never  tell  ?  " 

The  mystery  of  the  simple  history  of  Susan  had  been  so  often  told  in  con- 
fidence that  when  one  put  one's  finger  on  one's  lip  in  speaking  of  it,  it  was  a 
sign ;  there  are  some  things  that  it  is  reverent  not  to  tell  publicly,  —  this  was 
one  of  them. 

There  was  a  poem  of  some  unknown  author  that  she  used  to  repeat  to  me 
when  whortleberrying,  which  to  my  simple  mind  surpassed  in  lyric  beauty  any- 
thing that  Wordsworth  ever  wrote.  It  began : 

"  Why,  Phoebe,  have  you  come  so  soon  ? 
Where  are  your  berries,  child  ?  " 

The  unfortunate  Phoebe  was  to  my  eyes  a  never-failing  source  of  tears.     The 
earthquake  of  Lisbon  never  affected  me   like  that. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  tempests  that  sometimes  followed  the  long  August 
days  when  we  went  whortleberrying.  If  we  had  an  uneventful  tour,  we  yet  had 
eventful  skies.  The  hot  forenoon ;  the  ospreys  wheeling  in  the  fiery  meridian 
heaven ;  the  fevered  air ;  the  pearl-white  clouds  that  rose  in  the  north  like 
mountains,  peak  rising  above  peak  as  in  the  Alps  or  Andes;  the  universal 
singing  of  birds  in  joyous  expectation  of  showers;  the  hurrying  hay-wagons; 
the  rapid  motions  of  the  rakes  and  forks ;  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay ;  the 
carrying  of  water  to  the  haymakers  by  the  farmers'  wives  and  daughters;  the 
shadow  of  the  cloud;  the  half-sun  and  half-shadow  on  the  fields;  the  mutter- 
ing of  the  thunder;  the  few  terrific  peals;  the  thunderbolt  that  smote  some 
tall  tree  in  the  near  woodland  pasture  ;  the  deluge  of  rain  ;  the  dripping  leaves ; 
the  breaking  cloud;  the  rainbow;  the  broken  sunset;  the  singing  of  birds 
again ;  the  flying  of  night-hawks,  and  the  cool,  starry  night  that  followed,  —  I 
can  still  see  that  country  dog-day,  as  such  a  day  was  called.  I  still  can  feel  in 
my  imagination  as  I  felt  in  the  changing  air  from  a  fevered  heat  to  refreshing 
cool,  as  we  sheltered  ourselves  under  the  thick  savin-trees,  waiting  for  the 
shower  to  pass. 


W*1?^! 


THE  FUNNIEST  THING  AT  THE  FAIR.  153 

Miraculous  Susan,  over  whose  head  the  silver  ring  appeared  in  the  old 
Orthodox  church  on  the  Heights,  lived  in  a  small  cottage  near  Quaker  Hill. 
Across  a  narrow  waterway  was  Tiverton  Heights.  The  water  is  spanned  by  a 
stone  bridge  now ;  it  was  a  ferry  in  Susan's  day. 

A  strange  event  had  happened  to  Susan.  We  never  knew  of  her  telling  the 
story  but  once,  and  that  was  at  a  husking  at  Tiverton,  after  her  feelings  had  been 
a  little  touched  by  certain  jokes  about  her  that  had  fallen  upon  her  ears  at  a 
husking-party. 

"  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  calash,  "  I  fear  sometimes  that  there 's  no 
miracle  ever  happened  in  my  poor  life  —  I  can't  say;  but  I  've  had  a  hard  time. 
I  never  encouraged  any  man  to  marry  me  —  how  could  I  ?  only  Malachi,  he 
just  took  hold  of  one  end  of  my  apron-string  one  evening,  and  opened  his 
mouth,  and  I  said  '  Stop !  '  and  looked  at  him  just  like  that.  Malachi  was  a 
likely  man,  but  I  would  n't  be  a  burden  to  him.  The  doctor  said  that  Mother 
would  be  a  cripple  for  life,  and  he  had  no  sooner  said  that  than  my  mind  was 
made  right  up.  I  knew  my  duty.  If  a  thing  is  right,  it  is  right,  and  there  need 
be  nothing  more  said  about  it;  and  if  a  thing  is  wrong,  it  is  wrong,  and  there 
need  be  nothing  more  said  about  that.  I  've  had  some  blessin's  and  a  pretty 
even  life,  take  it  all  in  all,  —  only  that  miracle  that  happened  to  me  in  church, 
and  nobody  was  to  blame  for  that !  I  did  think  that  the  '  angel  of  the  Lord 
had  come  down,'  as  the  choir  used  to  sing,  but  I  fear  I  was  mistaken." 

Miraculous  Susan  arose  and  bent  over  the  corn-heap  and  pulled  down  a 
large  husking  of  corn.  It  was  a  bright,  clear,  still  November  day,  with  a  woody 
odor  in  the  air  that  came  from  the  falling  leaves  of  the  flaming  maples  and 
walnut-trees  where  the  river  made  an  ox-bow.  There  had  been  a  gusty  storm 
the  night  before,  leaving  leaf-wet  woods.  The  crows  were  cawing  in  the  far 
tree-tops,  and  the  pilfering  jays  were  swinging  in  the  wild  grape-vines.  Hither 
and  thither  a  nimble  squirrel,  called  the  "  chipmunk,"  might  have  been  seen 
running  along  the  gray  stone  walls. 

The  Parson  sat  next  to  Miraculous  Susan  by  the  husk-heap. 

"  You  never  gave  Malachi  any  yarn  to  wind?"  said  he,  good-naturedly,  to 
lead  up  to  the  neighborhood  story. 

"  No,  I  never  encouraged  him  as  much  as  that.  I  only  treated  him  so  well 
that  he  came  a  second  time.  La,  Parson,  if  I  'd  only  said  the  word  I  need  n't 
ha'  been  huskin'  here  for  one  bushel  in  ten.  But  my  folks,  they  were  all  ought- 
to-be  people,  and  I  had  to  be  just  what  I  ought  to  be.  It  was  born  in  me.  I 
know  that  I  got  spiritually  proud,  and  actually  thought  that  the  Lord  had 
appeared  to  me  and  set  a  halo  of  glory  around  my  head.  Think  of  it,  a  poor 


154  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

lone  woman  like  me !  But  the  world  has  been  good  to  me,  and  it  will  be  a 
great  deal  better  on  the  day  that  I  go  out  of  it  than  it  was  on  the  day  when.  I 
came  into  it,  and  none  the  worse  for  my  being  in  it  —  don't  you  think  so, 
Parson?  " 

"Yes,  Sister  Susan,  that  is  just  my  own  opinion." 

"  I  can  make  mince  pies  equal  to  Dorothy  Hancock's,  though  I  can't  pull 
a  string  as  that  woman  did  on  the  French  fleet  one  day,  and  have  a  whole 
frigate  go  bang,  banging  around  me.  There  's  a  difference  between  some  folks 
and  others." 

"  You  are  right,  Susan,  —  you  can  make  mince  pies." 

"  And  pandowdy  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  never  ate  any  Thanksgiving  pandowdy  equal  to  yours." 

"  That's  because  I  let  the  crust  candy,  and  then  breaks  it  all  up,  and  kneads 
it  into  the  apple.  —  This  is  a  beautiful  world !  " 

It  surely  was  on  that  day  and  in  that  thrifty  meadow.  The  sky  was  as  blue 
as  in  April.  The  hills  in  their  late  autumn  hues  shimmered  afar  like  dream- 
lands. The  long  meadows  were  restful  and  bright  with  cool  green  aftermath. 
Between  the  hills  ran  the  way  down  to  the  cranberry  meadows,  the  salt  marshes, 
and  the  purple  sea. 

The  farm  lay  upon  a  stretch  of  land  now  known  as  Tiverton  Heights,  which 
was  already  famous  in  Indian  history,  but  is  now  also  associated  with  stirring 
events  of  the  Revolutionary  War.  There  is  no  place  in  America  that  com- 
mands more  romantic  scenes  and  waterways.  At  a  distance  lay  the  town  of 
Little  Compton,  the  residence  of  Captain  Benjamin  Church  the  Indian-fighter, 
and  the  rich  hunting-grounds  of  the  Awasonks.  In  the  lowlands  at  the  sea- 
levels  was  the  island  of  Rhode  Island,  where  had  lived  Bishop  Berkeley,  of  pro- 
phetic memory.  In  the  town  now  called  Middleton,  near  Newport,  the  Aquidians 
had  met  their  fate ;  and  the  same  town  now  is  famous  as  the  place  where  Barton 
captured  General  Prescott :  — 

"  'Twas  on  that  dark  and  stormy  night, 

The  winds  and  waves  did  roar, 
Bold  Barton  then  with  twenty  men 
Went  down  upon  the  shore." 

The  old  inhabitants  still  love  to  tell  how  Tuck  Sisson  on  that  memorable  July 
night  broke  open  the  British  General's  door  by  butting  against  it  with  his  head. 
To  the  west,  where  now  the  great  stone  bridge,  costing  a  quarter  of  a  million, 
connects  the  island  of  Newport  the  Beautiful  with  the  mainland,  was  the 
pleasant  ferry.  And  beyond  lay  the  Narragansett,  one  of  the  beautiful  inland 


THE   FUNNIEST   THING   AT   THE   FAIR.  157 

seas  of  the  world.  Here  also  were  the  Highlands  of  the  Pocassetts,  and  thence 
Queen  Wetamoe  and  her  warriors  used  to  cross  Mount  Hope  Bay  to  unite  in 
the  war-dances  of  King  Philip  at  night.  To-day  every  town  on  the  Heights 
has  its  wonderful  tales  and  romantic  legends. 

The  "  husk-heap,"  as  the  unharvested  corn  was  called,  was  many  hundred 
feet  long,  and  covered  on  the  top  with  thatch  and  swale  meadow-hay.  Behind 
it  rose  a  number  of  "  husk-stacks,"  as  the  heaped  husked  cornstalks  were 
termed,  while  in  front  were  two  huge  ox-carts,  with  high  sides,  which  were 
brimming  with  yellow  Indian  corn.  Over  the  corn-heaps  where  the  husking 
had  already  been  done  was  a  long  row  of  pumpkins,  "  pig  corn"  and  "  smutty 
corn,"  on  the  ground.  The  crickets  were  singing  cheerily  everywhere,  as  they 
always  did  on  bright  days  about  the  corn-heaps. 

The  huskers  were  a  merry  company.  In  the  middle  of  the  long  row  of 
these  busy  people  sat  Deacon  White,  the  owner  of  the  seashore  farm,  and  next 
to  him  Sally  Bannocks,  his  widowed  sister.  At  his  other  side  sat  Parson 
Brown,  who  had  come  over  from  the  parsonage  under  the  great  elbowing  elm- 
trees  to  "lend  a  hand;"  and  beside  the  good  Parson  sat  Miraculous  Susan, 
the  woman-of-all-work  of  the  town.  An  old  Indian  woman,  named  Maria,  took 
a  place  apart  from  the  others  at  the  end  of  the  heap.  Miraculous  Susan  and 
Indian  Maria  husked  for  the  Deacon  on  shares,  receiving  one  bushel  in  ten  of 
the  corn  that  they  basketed  for  their  labor.  A  dozen  or  more  boys  and  girls 
made  up  a  happy  party,  such  as  could  have  been  seen  in  November  a  hundred 
years  ago  on  almost  any  large  New  England  farm. 

In  these  merry  days  of  plenty  the  young  people  had  a  droll  song  that  they 
used  to  sing.  It  was  evidently  written  in  derision  of  the  unthrifty  farmer,  who 
had  no  such  bounteous  corn-heaps  as  these.  It  was  sung  in  doleful  minor, 
and  the  refrain  words  "  Over  there "  had  the  most  melancholy  cadence  of 
anything  that  I  ever  heard  except  the  hymn-tune  "  Windham."  It  ran  as 
follows :  — 

O  potatoes  they  grow  small, 
Over  there. 

O  potatoes  they  grow  small, 

For  they  plants  'em  in  the  fall, 

And  they  eats  'em  skins  and  all, 
Over  there  ! 

O  they  had  a  clam  pie, 

Over  there. 
O  they  had  a  clam  pie. 

Over  there. 


158  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY.      • 

O  they  had  a  clam  pie, 
And  its  crust  was  made  of  rye, 
You  must  eat  it  or  must  die, 
Over  there ! 

The  fiddling  tune  of  "  Old  Rosin  the  Beau,"  and  the  lively  strains  of 
"  Money  Musk,"  the  "  Virginia  Reel,"  and  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe,"  were  often 
heard  at  the  husking-parties,  played  by  the  village  fiddlers,  of  whom  every 
town  had  one.  For  more  serious  music,  the  huskers  sang  the  old  plaintive 
Scotch  airs. 

Miraculous  Susan  ?  She  was  the  servant  of  everybody  in  distress  ;  the 
good  woman  of  the  town.  She  heard  the  first  wail  of  the  infant,  and  stood 
last  by  the  trembling  widow  when  the  sod  fell  hollow  upon  the  coffin.  Did  a 
child  have  a  bad  case  of  measles  or  throat-ail,  she  was  there ;  was  there  a  case 
of  typhus  fever,  her  faithful  hand  fanned  that  brow.  She  did  not  shrink  even 
from  a  case  of  smallpox.  Did  a  farm-wife  fall  sick  in  haying-time,  thither 
went  Miraculous  Susan.  Did  a  woman  with  a  great  family  of  children  need 
special  help  on  washing-day,  baking-day,  or  at  "  killing-time,"  there  she  was 
found.  She  used  to  say  that  the  Lord  created  her  "  fists  full  of  days'  work  for 
everybody,"  and  that  that  was  her  mission  in  life ;  and  always  added  the  reflec- 
tion of  doubtful  comfort,  "  And  I  shall  get  through  by  and  by." 

Her  name  —  "  Miraculous  Susan  "  —  how  did  she  come  by  that  ? 

Therein  is  our  story,  as  we  have  intimated.  Other  people  told  it  many 
times ;  it  was  a  wonder-tale  of  the  old  farms.  I  never  knew  her  to  tell  the 
story  but  once,  and  that  was  on  this  particular  day,  at  the  corn-heap. 

"  Parson  Brown,"  said  she,  pulling  down  a  large  armful  of  cornstalks  and 
corn,  "do  you  really  think  that  there  are  such  persons  as  ghost-seers,  or  that 
all  such  things  are  only  just  -like  the  '  House  that  Jack  built,'  just  one  thing 
leadin'  into  another  ?  " 

"  Susan,"  said  the  good  Parson,  "  I  have  n't  believed  much  in  those  things 
since  what  happened  to  you,  according  to  Elder  Almy's  view  of  the  matter. 
Don't  be  offended,  Susan.  There  are  mostly  mysterious  causes  for  mysterious 
things.  You  are  an  honest  woman,  Susan,  and  it  is  much  good  that  you  have 
done  in  the  world.  As  for  that  miracle,  Susan,  that  was  a  very  peculiar  case. 
It's  husking-time,  and  we  are  all  your  friends;  just  tell  us  your  side  of  that 
story  which  makes  the  people  —  the  Lord  forgive  'cm!  — all  call  you  Miracu- 
lous Susan." 

Susan  drew  her  Rob-Roy  shawl  around  her,  and  gave  the  Parson  the  same 
kind  of  a  look  that  she  had  given  Malachi  when  he  just  took  hold  of  her  apron- 


ADMINISTRATION1   BUILDING. 


THE  FUNNIEST   THING  AT   THE  FAIR.  l6l 

String  to  get  courage  to  ask  the  question.  Then  her  face  relaxed,  and  there 
came  into  it  a  kindly  look,  and  she  said,  "  Parson  Brown,  I  will.  You  have  all 
been  proper  good  to  me,  and  have  always  meant  well,  if  you  do  say  '  Ichabod  ' 
to  me  now;  you  mean  well." 

Susan  pulled  down  a  large  heap  of  corn  to  husk  while  telling  her  story,  and 
shook  out  of  it  the  dry  corn-cockles,  saying,  "  First  the  blade,  and  then  the  ear, 
and  then  the  full  corn  in  the  ear,"  and  adding,  "  Every  cornstalk  is  a  Thanks- 
giving sermon."  The  children  drew  near  to  hear,  and  with  them  one  girl, 
Susanna,  whose  eyes  grew  with  the  story. 

"Tell  all  you  know,"  said  Deacon  White;  "and  it  is  mighty  interesting  to 
hear  a  person  tell  a  little  more  than  he  knows.  I  always  like  people  that  can 
see  just  a  little  beyond  the  horizon  —  what  is  the  imagination  for?  " 

"  I  shall  tell  you  only  the  plain  truth,"  said  Susan.  "  So  let  me  begin  with 
the  planting-time,  when  the  bluebirds  came  with  the  sky  on  their  wings,  and 
the  children  dropped  the  first  corn  into  the  ground.  I  was  dreadful  poor  that 
year.  Mother  had  just  died  and  left  me  alone  and  lonesome,  and  I  began  then 
to  be  hands  and  feet  for  everybody,  so  as  to  heal  up  the  great  lump  in  my 
heart.  I  had  a  Rob-Roy  shawl  that  I  had  worn  for  years  to  church,  summer 
and  winter,  and  one  June  day,  as  I  was  coming  down  the  steps  of  the  church, 
Deacon  White  here,  says  he,  says  he  to  me,  '  Susan,  you  ought  to  have  some 
better  things  to  wear;  and  if  we  have  a  prosperous  year,  and  my  ship  comes 
in  prosperous-like,  I  mean  to  get  the  folks  together  in  the  fall,  and  to  have 
them  make  you  a  present  of  a  real  camlet  cloak.' 

"  Could  I  believe  my  ears  ?  It  was  only  grand  folks  that  wore  camlet 
cloaks !  The  wives  of  people  who  traded  at  sea ! 

"  I  attended  church  at  Quaker  Hill  for  the  most  part,  because,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  had  to  dress  plain,  and  my  simple  clothes  did  not  make  me  look  so 
poor  among  the  gray  Quaker  folk  as  they  did  among  the  silk  gowns  and  cam- 
let cloaks  at  Tiverton.  And  then,  at  the  hands-shaking  after  the  Quaker  meet- 
ings, I  used  often  to  find  something  in  my  hands  besides  emptiness,  and  I 
always  felt  friendly  to  the  Quaker  folk  who  were  led  by  the  Spirit,  and  who 
believed  their  words  were  Spirit  when  they  preached  and  exhorted.  They  are 
good  people,  and  I  wish  that  the  world  were  full  of  such,  which  I  say  though  I 
am  Orthodox. 

"  Well,  I  looked  at  the  Deacon.  His  first  wife  had  a  camlet  cloak,  brought 
over  from  the  East  Indies  or  some  foreign  parts  where  the  camels  grow. 

"  But  what  the  Deacon  said  did  touch  my  heart  in  a  tender  place.  He  was 
the  first  person  in  all  the  community  that  had  ever  seemed  to  think  that  I 
would  like  to  be  thought  of.  My  lip  trembled,  and  I  pulled  down  my  calash 


1 62  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

to  hide  my  weakness,  because  my  eyelids  began  to  twitch,  and  I  could  n't  help 
it.  I  walked  down  the  steps  firmly,  and  then  I  took  the  wood-path  home,  and 
sat  down  on  the  pine-needles  all  alone  on  the  way  and  had  a  good  cry.  I 
did  n't  know  that  I  had  any  such  feelings  before.  It  was  n't  the  thought  of  a 
camlet  cloak  that  made  me  break  up  so,  —  it  was  that  the  Deacon  had  seen  that 
I  had  had  a  hard  time,  and  felt  for  me. 

"  Well,  the  corn  came  up,  and  the  blades  waved  in  the  long  fields  in  the 
June  air,  and  the  robins  sang  everywhere.  I  was  spry  that  summer,  and  every- 
where I  went  there  arose  before  me  a  vision  of  that  camlet  cloak.  Not  that  I 
wanted  such  a  cloak,  but  I  wanted  the  people  to  have  some  regard  for  me,  and 
what  the  Deacon  said  stood  for  that.  Everybody  likes  to  be  thought  some- 
thing of  sometime. 

"  The  blades  of  corn  turned  at  last  into  silk  and  tassels,  and  then  it  was 
September,  and  every  kernel  that  had  been  planted  under  the  April  skies  had 
produced  an  ear,  and  some  two.  The  green  fields  turned  yellow  and  rustled, 
and  the  crickets  piped  and  the  birds  sang  their  last  song  and  flew  away.  Then 
came  Indian  summer,  and  the  Thanksgiving  days  were  near  at  hand.  It  had 
been  a  prosperous  year,  and  the  Deacon's  ship  had  come  in  with  its  gun 
booming. 

"  One  day  the  stage  came  lumbering  up  the  Heights,  and  the  driver  drew 
up  the  reins  before  my  door,  and  looked  under  the  great  leather  boot  where 
the  mail-bags  were,  and  brought  out  a  large  box,  and  called, — 

"  '  Susan,  here —  I  've  got  something  for  ye,  from  Newport.' 

"'That's  passing  strange,'  said  I,  throwing  my  apron  over  my  head.  'I 
have  n't  any  near  of  kin  in  Newport.' 

"  '  Friends,'  said  he. 

"'Friends?'  said  I.  'I  haven't  many  of  them  anywhere,  as  for  that 
matter ;  they  're  as  scarce  as  hen's  teeth  in  this  world  where  there  's  so  much 
selfishness.  But  I  hadn't  ought  to  complain;  we  all  of  us  get  treated  better 
than  we  deserve.  The  Lord  forgive  me  for  saying  such  things  as  those !  This 
is  a  good  world.' 

"  He  handed  down  a  package. 

"'Guess  it  came  from  foreign  parts,'  said  he.  'Do  the  best  you  can, 
Susan,  so  that  when  this  bothersome  life  is  all  over  you  will  —  you  will  —  Go 
lang;  '  and  he  was  out  of  sight  in  quick  time,  the  wheels  rattling  over  the 
stony  hill. 

"  I  took  the  package  into  the  house,  and  opened  it,  all  alone.  Could  I 
believe  my  eyes?  It  was  a  camlet  cloak,  all  made  of  silk  and  camel's  hair, 
and  grand  enough  to  have  bedecked  a  queen,  and  large  enough  to  cover  my 
whole  body. 


THE   FUNNIEST   THING   AT   THE   FAIR.  163 

"  I  first  thought  that  I  would  just  sink  right  down  on  my  knees  and  pray. 
Then  my  vanity  got  the  better  of  me,  and  I  held  up  the  cloak  before  the 
looking-glass;  my  cap-border  rose  when  I  thought  how  fine  I  would  look 
going  up  the  steps  of  the  old  church  with  that  garment  covering  me,  like  a 
picture  of  Queen  Vashti  in  the  Bible. 

"  While  I  was  standing  there,  grand  as  a  drum-major  at  a  general  training, 
who  should  come  in  but  old  Elder  Almy,  of  Portsmouth  Farms. 

" '  What  has  thee  got  there,  Susan  ? '  said  he,  looking  up  queerly  from 
under  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat. 

"  '  A  royal  garment  fit  for  a  queen,'  said  I.     '  Look  there,  Elder  Almy  —  a 
camlet  cloak !  ' 

" '  I  see,  I  see,'  said  he.  '  I  heard  that  the  Tiverton  folks  were  about  to 
make  thee  a  present,'  said  he,  '  and  I  hoped  it  would  be  such  an  one  as  would 
make  thy  heart  better.  It  is  only  the  present  that  makes  the  heart  better  that 
the  Lord  desires  thee  to  have,  Sister  Susan.' 

"  '  Elder  Almy,'  said  I,  '  I  am  a  plain-spoken  woman,  and  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  one  question,  if  you  are  a  Quaker.  Why  should  not  a  poor  woman 
like  me  have  a  camlet  cloak?  ' 

" '  Thee  shouldst,  if  it  would  make  thee  better,  Susan.  What  hast  thou  to 
go  with  thy  camlet  cloak?  Look  at  thy  shoes,  Susan.  How  is  thy  meal-chest, 
Susan?  How  wouldst  thee  look  in  thy  green  calash  and  thy  camlet  cloak, 
Susan?  " 

"  '  But  I  'm  goin'  to  get  a  whole  lot  of  new  things  to  wear  with  my  camlet 
cloak,'  said  I. 

"  '  How  about  thy  purse,  Susan?  Hast  thou  means  to  live  after  the  pattern 
of  thy  royal  garment?  And  would  it  be  good  for  thy  heart  if  thou  hadst? 
Simple  living  is  a  duty,  Susan.  I  dress  as  simply  as  my  work-folks,  Susan. 
If  I  did  otherwise,  I  would  encourage  extravagance  in  them.  Thy  camlet 
cloak  begetteth  pride,  Susan,  and  pride  resisteth  the  Spirit,  Susan.  It  is  better 
for  thee,  Susan,  far  better,  to  be  poor  in  spirit.' 

"  Then  I  up  and  fell  from  grace,  the  Lord  forgive  me ! 

"  '  Elder  Almy,'  said  I,  I  am  just  as  good  as  any  of  the  people  that  wear 
camlet  cloaks.  There  was  no  different  blood  in  the  veins  of  Queen  Anne  than 
that  in  my  own.  Small  people  make  small  presents.  The  Governor  has  sent 
forth  his  proclamation  for  all  people  to  assemble  in  the  churches  on  the 
2Oth  day  of  the  iith  month,  and  I  am  going  to  assemble.' 

"'  All  of  you,  Susan  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  allot  me,  and  the  camlet  cloak.  It  does  n't  make  one  feel  happy  to 
be  given  pewter  spoons.  There  ! ' 


164  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  'Nor  a  gold  crown,  Susan?  ' 

"  I  was  sorry  afterwards  that  I  said  these  things,  for  Elder  Almy  and  all 
the  Quakers  were  the  most  feeling  and  generous  people,  and  as  for  Mrs.  Almy, 
why,  she  would  have  given  away  her  bonnet  off  her  own  head. 

"  I  had  some  money  that  I  had  hidden  away  in  an  old  Spanish  money-jar, 
against  sickness.  I  resolved  to  take  that  and  go  to  Newport  and  buy  me 
some  silk  for  a  hood,  an  alpaca  dress,  and  a  string  of  beads,  which  Elder  Almy 
would  have  classed  among  the  vanities.  I  went  to  Newport,  and  I  found  there 
that  I  needed  so  many  things  to  go  with  the  camlet  cloak  that  I  spent  all  the 
money  that  I  had.  '  The  Lord  who  sent  the  camlet  cloak  will  provide,'  said  I. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  bright  Thanksgiving  morning  that  I  was  to  set 
out  from  Quaker  Hill,  and  for  Tiverton,  in  my  silk  hood  and  camlet  cloak.  It 
was  a  cold  morning,  but  clear.  I  could  hear  the  surf  roaring  at  Newport,  and 
the  bells  ringing. 

"  As  I  was  getting  ready  to  go,  I  chanced  to  open  the  old  saddle-room 
door,  and  what  should  I  see  there  but  the  very  foot-stove  that  my  mother  used 
to  carry  to  church,  before  they  had  one  stove  for  all  the  people.  A  thought 
struck  me.  My  pew  was  in  a  cold  part  of  the  church ;  I  would  fill  the  iron 
cup  inside  of  the  foot-stove  with  coals,  and  take  the  stove  along  with  me  under 
my  camlet  cloak.  No  one  would  ever  see  it,  and  it  would  keep  me  comfortable 
all  the  day. 

"  My  mother  was  better  off  than  I,  and  her  foot-stove  was  not  one  of  the 
ordinary  kind.  It  was  made  of  block  tin,  was  perforated  in  stars,  had  a  mahog- 
any frame,  and  a  brass  pan  for  the  coals.  It  was  always  a  mystery  to  me  how 
coals  in  that  little  hand-stove  would  hold  fire  for  so  long  a  time.  She  used  to 
use  hard-wood  coal,  and  mostly  walnut.  I  had  some  good  coals  of  apple-tree 
wood  in  the  stove  that  morning,  and  I  put  them  into  the  pan,  and  closed  the 
stove  door,  and  took  the  stove  in  my  left  hand  under  my  cloak  like  a  basket 
of  eggs.  Nobody  ever  carries  a  foot-stove  now,  though  there  can  be  found 
one  still  in  the  saddle-rooms  and  eaves-holes  of  nearly  all  the  old  houses,  along 
with  the  brass  warming-pans,  candle-moulds,  and  shovels  and  tongs  and  fenders. 

"  How  bright  the  water  looked  at  the  ferry !  How  the  old  ferryman  stared 
when  he  saw  me !  How  an  old  crow  on  a  dead  tree  peered  down  at  me  and 
cried  out  in  the  keen  air,  '  Haw,  haw,  haw !  ' 

"  I  met  Elder  Almy  on  the  way/ 

"  '  Coin'  to  Thanksgiving?  '  said  he. 

"  '  How  do  I  look  now,  Elder?  '  said  I. 

"  '  Just  like  a  rag-bag,  —  a  travelling  vanity  on  the  road  to  Vanity  Fair. 
You'll  get  there,  Susan.  Did  you  hear  that  crow?  What  was  he  talking 
about,  Susan?  ' 


EGYPTIAN   JUGGLER. 


THE  FUNNIEST  THING  AT  THE  FAIR.  167 

" '  Pewter  spoons,  I  guess,'  said  I.  And  I  just  gave  him  that  look  that  I 
had  given  Malachi. 

"The  churchyard  was  full  of  people,  the  dead  and  alive;  for  that  matter, 
the  dead  are  always  there.  The  bell  was  ringing,  and  carriages  were  coming 
from  all  the  neighboring  farms.  All  eyes  were  bent  upon  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  crowd  and  went  up  the  church  steps.  I  took  my  seat  in  the  back 
pew  where  I  usually  sat,  and  put  my  feet  on  the  warm  foot-stove  and  spread 
over  it  the  camlet  cloak  like  a  tent,  and  looked  up  to  the  tall  pulpit,  the  red 
curtains,  and  sounding-board,  and  hour-glass. 

"Elder  Holmes  alluded  to  me  in  the  opening  prayer,  as  one  whom  'celestial 
charity  delighted  to  honor.'  After  the  prayer  I  looked  up  again  and  around, 
and  I  saw  that  all  the  eyes  in  the  church  were  turned  towards  me. 

"  '  The  Lord  keep  me  humble  !  '  prayed  I. 

"  That  prayer  was  answered.     Surely  it  was. 

"  The  text  was  a  curious  one  —  '  Where  there  is  no  vision,  the  people  per- 
ish.' Elder  Holmes,  he  gave  a  Bible  history  of  visions,  and  of  the  times  when 
the  Lord  spake  to  Israel  in  visions,  and  the  times  when  there  were  no  visions, 
and  then  he  went  over  history  to  show  that  when  people  lost  their  prophetic 
sense  the  nation  declined.  It  was  a  wonderful  discourse.  But  while  he  was 
giving  a  picture  of  the  woful  Middle  Ages,  when  the  people  lost  their  visions 
in  bloody  wars,  the  church  suddenly  grew  still ;  you  could  have  heard  a  pin 
drop.  The  foot-stove  had  made  such  a  warmth  under  my  cloak  that  I  had  al- 
most gone  to  sleep.  I  was  glad  that  the  Middle  Ages  were  gone,  and  was  think- 
ing that  things  in  this  world  must  be  above  all  right  now,  when  the  stillness  of 
the  church  awoke  me.  I  started  up  and  looked  around  wild  like,  and  my 
heart  gave  a  thump  as  I  saw  Elder  Holmes  standing  in  the  pulpit,  silent,  with 
uplifted  hands, —  and  the  great  silk  sleeves  of  his  robe  did  make  his  arms  ap- 
pear awful.  The  Elder  was  looking  straight  at  me. 

"  I  turned  my  head.  Every  eye  in  the  gallery  was  fixed  upon  me.  I  looked 
towards  the  deacons'  pew.  The  four  deacons  all  set,  bent  forward  like,  staring 
straight  at  me.  What  had  happened  ? 

"  I  might  well  ask  that.  Every  one  seemed  looking  at  something  over  my 
head.  I  looked  up,  and  there,  right  over  my  head,  hung  a  vision.  The 
heavens  had  come  down,  or  so  thought  all  the  people,  and  so  thought  I. 
How  shall  I  describe  it  as  it  appeared  to  me?  I  seem  to  see  it  now. 

"  Over  my  head  hung  a  ring,  bright  as  silver  and  pearls,  and  full  of  golden 
light.  A  miraculous  ring !  From  the  ring  there  were  floating  away  little  silver 
rings,  which  I  took  to  be  wings  of  angels,  and  which  melted  away  as  they  went 
up.  The  sunlight  shone  through  the  silver  ring  as  I  sat  between  the  windows, 


1 68  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

and  the  vision  seemed  at  times  like  a  circle  of  glass  filled  with  glimmering  gold. 
I  never  can  describe  how  I  felt  at  that  hour.  I  thought  of  the  hymn — Heaven 
forgive  my  vanity  !  — 

"  '  The  Lord  descended  from  above, 

And  bowed  the  heavens  most  high, 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  garments  of  the  sky.' 

"  I  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  the  choir.  The  singers  were  all  looking  down  upon 
me  as  though  they  were  just  rising  to  sing.  Even  the  bass-viol  seemed  to  be 
looking.  Then  I  dropped  my  eyes  to  the  pew  where  the  deacons'  wives  sat, 
and  Deacon  Coon's  wife,  she  looked  just  as  though  her  eyes  would  shoot  out  of 
her  head,  and  Deacon  Bradford's  wife,  she  sat  looking  just  like  this,  with  a 
snuff-box  in  her  hands  —  so —  and  her  neck  as  long  as  a  sea  loon's  flying — so. 

"  It  was  a  curious  sight.  I  shall  never  forget  it  to  the  longest  day  of  my 
life :  the  choir,  all  eyes  looking  down ;  the  deacons  on  one  side  of  the  high  pul- 
pit, looking  out  of  their  pew;  the  deacons'  wives  on  the  other  side  of  the 
pulpit,  looking  out  of  their  pew,  and  the  parson  in  his  high  curtained  pulpit 
under  the  sounding-board,  with  his  arms  in  his  robe,  uplifted  — this  way. 

"  '  Signs  and  wonders  !  '  said  Parson  Holmes.  '  Let  us  gaze  on  in  silence  !  ' 
They  did.  The  silence  was  awful. 

"  My  heart  beat  so  violently  that  I  felt  that  I  must  get  up  and  go  out  into 
the  yard.  I  rose  slowly,  and  went  down  the  aisle,  where  all  the  people  were 
sitting  like  statues.  As  soon  as  I  got  up,  there  was  a  great  uplifting  of  what 
seemed  to  be  pearly  angels'  wings  around  my  head —  little  silvery  wings —  and 
then  the  vision  vanished. 

"  I  never  felt  so  proud  in  all  my  life  as  when  I  went  back  to  Quaker  Hill 
that  day,  a  camlet  cloak  on  my  back,  and  a  vision  of  angels,  for  aught  I  could 
say,  hovering  over  my  new  silk  hood.  I  imagined  I  was  one  of  the  old  patri- 
archs. What  would  Quaker  Almy  say  now  ?  Wa'  n't  I  as  good  as  anybody? 

"  The  news  of  what  had  happened  spread  everywhere.  In  a  day  or  two 
Deacon  Almy  came  to  see  me. 

"'Signs  and  wonders!  '  said  I. 

"  '  Pins  and  needles  ! '  said  he.  '  The  Lord  don't  appear  in  visions  to 
people  in  camlet  cloaks,  that  talk  sassy  when  reproved.  I  have  a  theory  about 
that  vision.  We  are  commanded  to  try  the  spirit,  Susan,'  said  he,  looking  at 
me  with  a  searching  eye.  '  What  didst  thee  carry  that  day  with  thee  under  thy 
camlet  cloak?  ' 

"  '  Nothing  but  my  mother's  foot-stove,'  said  I. 


THE  FUNNIEST   THING  AT  THE  FAIR.  169 

"  '  Did  it  smoke?'  said  he. 

"  '  A  little  bit,'  said  I. 

"  '  And  where  did  the  smoke  go  to  ?  '  asked  he. 

"  '  I  smothered  it  under  my  camlet  cloak,'  said  I.  '  A  little  of  it  might  have 
gone  out  between  my^ shoulders,'  said  I,  after  stopping  to  think.  '  I  sat  bent 
over,  and  I  could  n't  see  my  back.  How  could  I?'  The  word  '  smoke  '  made 
me  feel  very  uncertain. 

"  '  And  a  light  smoke  always  forms  a  circle  before  it  ascends,  and  in  a  ray 
of  sunlight  the  circle  would  look  like  gold,'  said  he,  'and  then  it  would  all  break 
apart  feathery  like,'  said  he,  '  and  '  —  I  could  n't  endure  any  more. 

"  I  arose  and  seized  the  broom. 

"  '  You  unbelieving  Philistine  !'  said  I. 

"  '  You  may  spare  that  carnal  weapon,'  said  he.  '  Susan,  you  are  a  good 
woman  in  the  main,  but  you  have  n't  the  kind  of  spirit  that  sees  visions.  I  'm 
sorry  for  ye.' 

"Well,  would  you  believe  it?  I  began  to  doubt  the  vision  myself,  and 
Elder  Aimy,  he  gave  out  his  suspicions  among  the  people,  and  some  thought 
one  thing  and  some  another. 

"  But  right  after  Thanksgiving  there  came  an  awful  snowstorm,  and  though 
I  had  a  silk  hood  and  a  camlet  cloak,  I  had  n't  no  meal,  nor  hardly  anything  to 
eat  or  burn.  Then  Elder  Almy  and  some  of  the  brethren  came  over  from  the 
Quaker  Hill  farms,  and  brought  me  two  cords  of  wood,  and  some  bags  of 
meal,  and  a  quarter  of  beef,  and  a  whole  sage  cheese,  and  some  stout  flannel, 
and  Sister  Almy,  she  put  five  pistareens  in  my  hand,  and  gave  me  a  braided 
husk  mat  and  a  quilted  bed-coverlet,  and  they  all  talked  to  me  about  the  Inner 
Light,  and  humility,  and  loving  others  better  than  self,  and  then  they  held  a 
meeting  in  my  kitchen  as  still  as  the  wings  of  death ;  and  when  they  were  gone 
I  hung  up  my  camlet  cloak  in  the  cupboard  for  good  and  all,  and  resolved  to 
love  henceforth  and  forever  just  such  poor  creatures  as  myself,  and  to  serve  'em 
as  best  I  could ;  and  I  never  felt  so  thankful  in  all  my  life.  Deacon  White 
here,  he  and  the  church  all  meant  well,  but,  as  Elder  Almy  says, '  Always  make 
presents  that  will  do  people  good.'  Good  presents,  of  course,  make  people 
feel  better  than  poor  ones, —  but  beautiful  things  may  be  serviceable,  too. 

"  This  is  a  good  world,  Deacon,  and  I  will  always  love  you  for  the  camlet 
cloak;  but  then,  you  know,  Deacon,  and  you  know,  Elder,  that —  There,  the 
horn  is  blowing  for  dinner,  and  I  've  husked  this  morning  five  baskets  of  corn." 

"  Was  it  a  miracle,  Susan  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  huskers, —  the  girl  with  large 
eyes. 


170  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  Well,  some  say  it  was,  like  Elder  Holmes,  and  some,  like  Elder  Almy,  say 
it  was  only  smoke ;  I  can't  be  sure.  It  seems  to  me  like  the  battle  of  Sheriff 
Muir,  that  my  old  grandfather,  who  was  a  Scotchman,  used  to  tell  about: 

"  '  Some  say  that  they  ran. 
Some  say  that  we  ran, 
And  some  say  that  nane  ran 
At  a',  man. 

"  '  But  of  one  thing  I  'm  sure, 

A  battle  there  was  at  Sheriff  Muir, 
Which  I  saw,  man, 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran, 
And  they  ran,  and  we  ran, 
Awa',  man.'  " 

Susan,  like  ordinary  mortals,  obeyed  the  lively  dinner-horn,  followed  by  the 
merry  Rhode  Islanders. 

The  Miracle?  It  is  a  mystery  still.  Susan  is  dead,  and  the  flat  gray  wall- 
stone  that  marked  her  grave  is  sinking,  moss-covered,  into  the  grass  where  the 
sparrows  nest,  among  the  many  graves  that  lie  on  the  sunset  slope  of  Quaker 
Hill. 


FISHERIES   BUILDING. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   GRANDEST  SCENE   OF  ALL. 

T  was  July  4th,  1893.  The  lake  breezes  in  the  early 
morning  floated  over  the  White  City.  Flags  filled 
the  air;  eight  hundred  acres  of  flags?  Yes,  more: 
in  fact,  Chicago  was  a  sky  of  flags;  and  so  was  the 
State  of  Illinois. 

Hundreds  of  thousands  of  people  were  pouring, 
like  a  multitude  of  tides,  toward  the  scene  of  enchantment.  The 
avenues  of  the  Exposition  were  thronged  early  in  the  day,  and  the 
crowds  grew.  The  Lake  was  here  white  with  craft  and  there  shadowed 
with  steamers.  There  was  music  everywhere. 

The  flaofs  of  all  nations  mingled;  the  national  airs  of  all  nations 

O  O 

mingled ;  people   of  all   nations  mingled.     The  White  City  was   the 
festival  of  the  World. 


172 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


ADMINISTRATION   BUILDING. 


Guns  boomed,  the  wonder  grew,  and  high  noon  was  a  scene  of 
glory. 

Our  trio  were  early  on  the  grounds. 

"What  is  wanting  here?"  asked  Mr.  Marlowe,  as  they  stood  in 
front  of  the  Administration  Building,  and  looked  down  the  Court  of 
Honor  toward  the  Peristyle  and  Lake. 

"  Only  a  White-Bordered  Flag,"  said  Grandfather  Marlowe,  looking 
up  to  the  allegorical  figures  of  the  elements  controlled  and  uncon- 
trolled,—  "only  a  Peace  Flag  to  lead  the  future,  and  stand  for  the 
brotherhood  of  all  mankind." 


THE   GRANDEST  SCENE   OF  ALL.  173 

While  he  was  speaking,  from  his  Quaker  view,  as  it  were,  out  of  the 
Inner  Light,  there  was  a  gathering  of  people,  and  it  was  led  by  a 
woman,  with  a  new  flag.  It  presently  shot  into  the  air  and  unrolled, 
amid  the  allegories  of  the  uncontrolled  and  the  controlled  world.  Its 
border  was  white.  It  was  hailed  with  cheering. 

The  old  Quaker  looked  up,  and  saw  it.  It  was  like  a  vision  to 
him.  He  had  dreamed  of  it  through  all  his  life :  the  fact  had  been 
within  prophetic  sight,  but  he  had  never  expected  it  in  a  vision  so 
glorious. 

Could  it  be  true?  The  flags  of  all  nations  filling  the  air,  the  sea, 
the  prairie;  hundreds  of  thousands  of  bright,  happy  faces  passing, 
their  eyes  filled  with  scenes  of  marvellous  beauty,  and  their  ears  with 
the  patriotic  musical  inspirations  of  struggles  for  liberty  and  progress 
for  the  ages ;  and  with  the  crown  of  the  great  throne  of  the  Adminis- 
tration Building,  the  White-Bordered  Flag  of  Peace,  floating  in  the 
shining  sky,  radiant,  glorious  —  could  it  be  true! 

"  Manton,"  said  the  old  Quaker,  "  that  is  the  grandest  sight  that 
you  will  see  at  the  Fair;  you  need  look  no  further.  That  is  the 
grandest  sight  that  has  appeared  since  angels  sang  over  the  Plains  of 
Bethlehem.  I  can  go  home  now  content,  and  die  in  peace.  The 
world  is  destined  to  follow  that  flasr ! " 

O 

"  I  expect  to  see  no  grander  sight  than  that,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe. 
*'  I  have  almost  made  up  my  mind  that  the  sympathetic,  good-humored 
laughter  in  the  Street  of  Cairo  is  the  funniest  thing  we  have  seen ; 
the  Philadelphia  Working-Man's  house,  the  most  useful  thing;  and  I 
am  sure  that  the  WThite-Bordered  Flag  in  the  Court  of  Honor  on 
this  Independence  Day,  will  be  the  prophetic  glory  of  the  Fair.  I 
have  now  to  study  the  most  noble  lesson  of  the  Fair." 

The  reader  may  like  to  know  something  of  the  history  of  the 
inspired,  unselfish,  and  most  earnest  woman,  Mary  Frost  Ormsby, 
whose  influence  caused  the  White-Bordered  Flag  to  be  raised  over 
the  Court  of  Honor  on  this  thrilling  day. 


174  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 

That  patriotic  magazine  "  Home  and  Country"  for  February,  1893, 
has  an  article  from  Mrs.  Ormsby's  pen,  in  which  that  lady  gives  an 
account  of  how  she  carried  the  White  Flag  to  Rome.  We  quote  a 
part  of  the  article :  — 

PEACE   CONGRESSES   AND   THE   PEACE   FLAG. 

As  an  accredited  delegate  of  the  Universal  Peace  Union,  founded  by  the 
Quakers,  or  Friends,  twenty-six  years  ago,  also  as  a  substitute  for  the  Rev. 
Edward  Everett  Hale,  D.D.,  of  Boston,  Massachusetts,  and  Mr.  William  O. 
McDowell,  of  Newark,  New  Jersey,  in  representing  the  Pan-Republic  Congress 
and  Woman's  Freedom  League,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  carry  the  flag  of 
peace  to  Rome. 

It  was  not  until  the  day  of  my  departure  I  learned  that  alone  and  unattended 
I  was  to  cross  the  ocean  and  the  Continent  with  this  treble  duty  intrusted  to  me. 
With  the  New  Orleans  matter  then  unsettled,  and  the  diplomatic  relations 
between  Italy  and  America  inharmonious  because  of  what  to  the  Italian  people 
seemed  an  utter  indifference  on  the  part  of  our  government  officials  in  regard  to 
the  massacre  of  Italian  subjects,  it  was  no  easy  task  to  present  the  flag  of  our 
country  to  a  peace  congress  at  Rome.  But  the  influences  that  emanated  from 
friendly  discussions  at  this  gathering,  the  fact  that  many  of  its  members  were 
also  members  of  the  Italian  parliament,  and  the  influence  exerted  by  letters 
sent  to  the  American  press,  —  all  were,  in  my  estimation,  most  efficient  aids  in 
speedily  and  amicably  adjusting  the  much-deplored  New  Orleans  tragedy.  The 
starry  flag  was  never  so  precious  to  me  as  when  it  was  consigned  to  my  care  until 
it  should  grace  our  congress  in  Rome. 

This  particular  flag  was  made  by  American  women  from  American  silk 
wrought  by  the  Woman's  Manufacturing  Company  of  Philadelphia. 

Pennsylvania  women 'arranged  it:  ever  from  its  earliest  history  this  State 
has  proved  the  power  of  justice  to  obtain  peace. 

After  a  perilous  journey,  having  encountered  a  storm  at  sea,  and  having 
been  compelled  to  ride  alone  all  night  in  a  closed  compartment  while  crossing 
the  Continent,  I  reached  the  Eternal  City  on  the  morning  that  congress  was  to 
convene. 

Here  at  Italy's  capital  had  gathered  a  corps  of  philosophers,  scientists,  artists, 
statesmen,  authors,  and  journalists,  to  advance  the  cause  of  peace  and  prevent 
bloodshed.  They  came  from  different  points  of  the  compass,  from  every  form 
of  government,  with  a  variety  of  aspirations,  judgments,  and  tastes,  but  with 
one  common  purpose. 


THE   GRANDEST  SCENE    OF  ALL.  177 

This  remarkable  assemblage  of  three  hundred  delegates,  representing  eighty- 
eight  different  peace  societies,  and  speaking  seventeen  different  languages,  had 
gathered  on  the  historic  spot  from  which  went  forth  the  edict  that  "  All  the 
world  should  be  taxed."  In  full  view  of  the  ruins  of  the  Forum  and  the  hill  of 
the  Caesars  we  proceeded  to  discuss  the  one  common  sentiment,  —  "  Peace  on 
earth,  and  good  will  to  men." 

Flags  of  every  nation  decked  the  capitol.  Music  from  the  municipal  band 
stationed  near  the  Aurelian  statue  stirred  every  heart  with  its  inspiring  strains. 
It  was  on  this  spot  that  Antony  and  Pompey  once  swayed  the  people  and 
urged  them  to  fresh  carnage  and  conquests.  Now  we  came  to  pray  that  the 
temple  of  Janus  would  forever  be  closed,  and  war  reign  no  more. 

Up  the  splendid  stairway  and  over  the  beautiful  serpentine  road  guarded 
by  gendarmes,  in  company  with  Rev.  Dr.  Sturgis  and  Miss  Rutter,  of  England, 
I  carried  the  American  flag,  —  the  Flag  of  Peace.  The  formal  presentation  was 
made  on  the  succeeding  day,  accompanied  by  an  appropriate  speech,  which 
was  enthusiastically  applauded,  especially  by  the  Italians,  although  the  New 
Orleans  tragedy  was  then  fresh  in  their  minds. 

Briefly  relating  the  Columbus  incident  in  the  discovery  of  America,  I  stated 
that  in  behalf  of  my  sister  countrywomen  I  had  come  to  his  native  shores  to 
unfurl  under  Italian  skies  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  our  "  Banner  of  Liberty  "  and 
"  Flag  of  Peace."  I  had  also  to  thank  Columbus'  countrymen  for  all  that  his 
discovery  had  accomplished  for  those  of  my  own  sex.  In  America,  as  nowhere 
else,  women  have  attained  intellectual  and  moral  advancement,  independence 
of  support,  and  peaceful  happy  homes. 

I  said,  "  Under  this  flag  dwell  sixty-five  millions  of  people  whose  interests, 
in  common  with  those  of  all  nations,  are  to  be  promoted  by  the  universal  settle- 
ment, through  arbitration,  of  all  international  difficulties." 

At  this  juncture  a  gendarme  handed  me  the  flag,  which  I  unfurled  and 
presented  to  the  president  as  a  contribution  from  America's  daughters.  It  was 
greeted  with  most  enthusiastic  applause,  lifted  gracefully  to  a  niche  at  the 
right  of  the  president,  and  placed  in  the  arms  of  the  gladiator  Steigile.  Its 
silken  folds  fell  over  the  cleft  arm  of  the  statue,  partially  concealing  the  figure 
representative  of  cruelty  and  death. 

Pointing  to  the  Stars  and  Stripes  I  suggested  that  its  tricolor  made  it  a 
fitting  emblem  of  the  third  assembling  of  our  Peace  Congress. 

Standing  on  the  dome  of  our  capitol  in  Washington  the  Goddess  of  Liberty 
holds  the  scales  of  Justice,  and  standing  upon  an  island  in  New  York  harbor 
she  bears  aloft  the  symbolic  torch  that  enlightens  the  world.  Women  of 


178  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

America  are  forming  associations  of  all  kinds  whereby  they  can  benefit 
humanity. 

"  We  are  not  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  the  discovery  of  America  by 
Columbus  was  accomplished  through  the  self-sacrifice  of  a  woman,  —  Queen 
Isabella,  —  who  pawned  her  jewels  to  defray  the  expense  of  the  expedition. 
Ought  not  America  then  to  be,  as.it  is,  the  favored  land  for  women?  And 
woman  continues  her  good  works. 

"  From  the  prison  to  the  paupers'  home,  from  the  health-saving  to  the  soul- 
saving  house,  you  will  find  armies  of  women,  not  clothed  for  war,  but  in  the 
garments  of  charity,  chanting  and  living  the  song,  '  Glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
and  on  earth  peace,  good  will  to  men.'  " 

The  same  flag  was  carried  to  Bern  last  summer  by  the  Italian  delegation. 

Germany  was  represented  in  our  third  congress  by  delegates  from  five 
societies,  England  from  sixteen,  France  from  five,  Italy  from  seventy-one, 
Servia  and  Switzerland  each  from  two ;  while  Austria,  Belgium,  Denmark, 
Spain,  Hungary,  Norway,  Holland,  Roumania,  and  Sweden,  each  sent  one 
representative. 

General  Howard's  brother,  Rev.  Rowland  B.,  was  the  only  delegate  from 
America  besides  myself,  who  crossed  the  ocean  for  the  express  purpose  of 
attending  the  congress.  His  journey  cost  him  his  life.  He  died  in  Rome  after 
a  long  illness. 

Captain  Siccardi,  one  of  the  bravest  soldiers  of  Italy,  who  resigned  from 
the  army  because  he  felt  it  was  a  fratricidal  occupation,  in  the  course  of  an 
able  address  before  the  Peace  Congress  at  Rome,  made  the  following  points, 
which  are  worth  repeating:  ist,  The  army  costs  more  in  the  otherwise  possible 
gain  which  it  interrupts  or  prevents  than  is  wasted  in  what  it  consumes ; 
2d,  The  maintenance  of  the  army  increases  taxes  and  duties  ;  3d,  The  workman 
whose  son  is  in  the  army,  loses  an  income,  and  thus  is  left  in  debt  ;  4th,  The 
soldier,  on  his  return  to  his  deserted  family,  receives  no  indemnity;  5th,  Organ- 
ized liberty  and  justice  do  not  abide  with  the  army  of  to-day;  6th,  What  we 
expend  on  the  army  is  no  insurance  against  losses  by  war;  /th,  By  the  removal 
of  so  many  workmen  from  their  industrial  pursuits  the  army  is  one  of  the 
greatest  enemies  to  civilization. 

Following  this  speech,  resolutions  regarding  the  disarmament  of  all  nations, 
and  the  establishment  of  permanent  international  arbitration,  were  offered  and 
accepted. 

The  delegates  were  from  the  world's  highest  ranks  of  scholars  and  humani- 
tarians. Many  distinguished  officials  and  representatives  of  their  respective 
governments  were  pjesent. 


THE  GRANDEST  SCENE   OF  ALL. 


181 


CONVENT    OF    LA    RABIDA. 

We  were  entertained  during  and  after  the  Peace  Congress  at  Rome,  by 
members  of  the  Italian  Peace  Society.  Its  president  was  Signer  Rugurio 
Bonghi,  an  ex-minister,  philosopher,  and  author,  whose  masterly  works  on  the 
conduct  of  national  affairs  have  greatly  interested  statesmen  and  humanitarians 
of  many  lands. 

"  The  flag  has  begun  a  new  era  of  the  achievements  of  Columbus," 
said  Mr.  Marlowe.  "  It  leads  what  in  old  Rome  would  be  called  a 
new  Seculum.  The  history  of  this  incident  will  live  and  grow.  Let 
us  go  to  La  Rabida !  " 

The  trio  pressed  through  the  crowds,  and  found  their  way  to  the 


182 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHIJ^E   CITY. 


CAKAVAI,   SANTA    MARIA. 


reproduction  of  the  old  Spanish  convent,  where  Columbus  had  found 
a  friend  in  Father  Perez.  Here  was  the  original  Commission  of 
Columbus,  and  the  supposed  anchor  of  the  "  Santa  Maria."  They 
rested  in  the  court  of  the  convent,  amid  the  cool  air  of  the  Lake,  and 
were  grateful  to  the  genius  of  Mr.  Ober,  which  had  caused  this  most 
realistic  Columbian  Museum  to  be  erected. 

Here,  amid  the  relics  of  a  long  historic  past,  they  talked  over  the 
events  of  the  day.  Sundown  found  them  there.  As  the  shadows  of 
evening  fell,  all  the  White  City  thrilled  with  electric  light,  and  shone 
in  outlines  of  unimagined  splendor.  It  was  at  the  convent  that  rep- 
licas of  the  ships  of  Columbus  came  to  be  exhibited,  and  afterwards 
the  "  Viking,"  or  the  Northmen's  ship. 


THE   GRANDEST  SCENE   OF  ALL.  183 

The  hour  of  nine  found  the  city,  the  Lake,  and  the  air  a  living 
glory.  The  Court  of  Honor  blazed,  and  the  many-colored  fountain 
threw  its  rainbows  into  the  air. 

Then  if  ever  the  trio  felt  the  force  of  the  great  discovery,  and  the 
long  procession  of  progress  that  had  led  up  to  this  wonderful  hour! 

MORNING    OF   THE   DISCOVERY. 

IMMORTAL  Morn,  all  hail, 
That  saw  Columbus  sail 

By  faith  alone. 
The  skies  before  him  bowed, 
Back  rolled  the  ocean  proud, 
And  every  lifting  cloud 

With  glory  shone ! 

Fair  Science  then  was  born 
On  that  celestial  morn, 

Faith  dared  the  sea, 
Triumphant  o'er  her  foes, 
Then  Truth  immortal  rose 
New  Heavens  to  disclose 

And  Earth  to  free  ! 

Strong  Freedom  then  came  forth 
To  liberate  the  earth 

And  crown  the  right. 
So  walked  the  pilot  bold 
Upon  the  sea  of  gold, 
And  darkness  backward  rolled, 

And  there  was  light ! 

Sweep,  sweep  across  the  seas, 
Ye  rolling  jubilees, 

Grand  chorals  raise ; 
The  world  adoring  stands, 
And  with  uplifted  hands 
Offers  from  all  the  lands 

To  God  its  praise  ! 


TRANSPORTATION    BUILDING. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

FOLK-LORE  TALES   IN   THE   OLD    COLONIAL   KITCHEN. 

HE  New  England  Kitchen  was  a  double  house  in 
colonial  style,  such  as  was  once  to  be  seen  on  the 
roads  running  between  Boston  and  the  coast  towns. 
Across  the  promenade  was  the  specimen  building 
of  the  Co-operative  Society  of  Philadelphia.  A 
little  way  beyond  it,  the  Irish  village  presented  a 
curious  contrast,  and  the  Blarney  Castle  rose  in  the  sunny  air. 

In  the  kitchen  of  the  typical  old-time  New  England  cottage  the 
homely  food  of  the  descendants  of  the  Pilgrims  was  served,  —  brown 
bread  and  baked  beans,  pumpkin  pies,  doughnuts  and  cheese,  home- 
made relishes.  The  waiters  were  dressed  in  colonial  costumes, 
and  sometimes  wore  calashes.  The  reception-room  of  the  house 
was  furnished  after  the  manner  of  the  Plymouth  Colony. 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN   THE    OLD    COLONIAL   KITCHEN. 


135 


NEW    ENGLAND    KITCHEN. 


The  Marlowes  were  made  welcome  here,  and  used  to  take  their 
suppers  in  the  kitchen,  after  becoming  foot-weary.  When  the  supper 
was  over,  they  would  linger  among  the  New  England  people,  who 
daily  gathered  here,  and  relate  colonial  wonder-tales. 

One  of  these  tales  well  fitted  the  unique  room.  It  was  told  by 
Mr.  Marlowe,  and  we  give  it  here  :  — 


THE  OLD  COACH  DOG,  OR,  THE  PHANTOM  INN. 

THE  scene  to  which  we  introduce  the  reader  on  this  Thanksgiving  Eve  was 
in  the  old  Winslow  house  at  Green  Harbor,  now  Marshfield,  Mass.  No  house 
in  America,  we  may  safely  say,  ever  had  so  many  colonial  legends  of  Thanks- 
giving Day  as  this. 


1 86  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  Silas,"  said  I,  one  night  to  an  old  stage-driver,  "  tell  us  the  story  of  the 
dog  that  said  '  Silas  !  '  " 

The  company  eagerly  demanded  the  tale. 

It  was  a  strange  room.  In  one  corner  were  bushel  baskets  heaped  with 
corn.  Uncle  Silas  shelled  corn,  as  he  said,  "  for  company,"  on  other  than  holi- 
day or  Sunday  evenings. 

Over  the  corn  baskets  were  strings  of  dried  apples,  pumpkins,  and  red 
peppers.  Near  the  fireplace  were  rennets  of  cheese,  and  under  the  rafters 
were  candle  poles. 

The  fireplace  revealed  great  fore-sticks,  apple-tree  wood,  which  made  an 
especially  hot  fire,  and  was  used  on  Thanksgiving  Eves,  and  at  special  times. 

Apples  in  rows  were  toasting  on  the  hot  hearth. 

The  family  consisted  of  an  old  couple,  named  White,  and  their  sons  and 
sons'  wives  and  children  from  towns  near  Boston,  and  a  few  invited  guests. 

Uncle  Silas  caught  up  his  chair  and  lifted  it  in  the  jumping  way  of  the  old 
colonial  time  to  a  place  nearer  the  fire.  A  shutter  banged,  and  he  cast  his  eyes 
mysteriously  toward  the  window.  The  room  grew  very  still. 

"The  clouds  are  scudding  over  the  moon,"  he  began,  —and  I  will  tell  the 
tale  as  he  told  it,  as  nearly  as  I  remember,  —  "  the  wind  is  rising —  I  can  hear  it 
in  the  tops  of  the  trees.  Many  's  the  time  I  have  gone  down  in  the  old  stage- 
coach on  nights  like  this,  and  leaped  from  the  seat  and  snatched  the  mail-bag 
from  the  boot,  and  when  I  said  '  Silas,'  there  would  creep  out  of  the  boot  that 
old  coach  dog. 

"  That  dog  was  given  to  me  by  a  sailor,  who  was  about  to  go  to  sea  from 
the  old  North  River.  He  was  a  pup  then. 

"  I  never  knew  a  dog  that  seemed  to  think  so  much  of  his  master  as  that 
dog  did  of  me.  His  eyes  were  never  off  of  me. 

"  I  taught  him  a  number  of  tricks,  such  as  to  stand  up  on  his  hind  legs  and 
beg,  which  he  did  by  uttering  a  sharp,  pitiful  cry.  While  begging  one  day,  he 
made  a  sound  like  '  Silas.'  I  repeated  it,  and  he  uttered  it  again. 

"  After  that  I  would  hold  back  from  him  his  food  until  he  had  made  that 
sound.  '  Say  Silas,'  I  would  say,  and  after  a  time  he  would  utter  the  word,  or 
what  sounded  like  it. 

"  The  old  stage-coaches  had  great  leather  boots  that  covered  the  driver's 
legs,  and  in  cold  and  stormy  days  could  be  raised  so  high  as  to  protect  nearly 
the  whole  body.  Under  the  boot  I  carried  the  mail-bags,  and  such  packages 
as  we  to-day  send  by  express. 

"  The  mail-coach  was  sometimes  robbed,  when  the  boot  was  known  to  cover 
valuables.  I  carried  my  own  money  in  a  large  wallet  in  a  side  pocket  of  a 
great  gray  coat,  and  money  for  others  in  the  same  way. 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN  THE   OLD   COLONIAL  KITCHEN. 


I87 


•'  I  drove  the  stage  for  ten  years,  but  I  was  never  molested  or  robbed  ; 
and  in  those  ten  years  my  dog  Silas  always  slept  at  my  feet  among  the  mail- 
bags. 

"  While    I   was    driving   the   stage    there    was    some    strange    things    that 


MRS.    PRESTON,    NEW   ENGLAND   KITCHEN,    MIDWAY. 


happened  in  the  old  Dedham  woods.  Several  travellers  who  had  gone  through 
those  woods  at  night  had  met  with  strange  adventures. 

"  They  had  seen  a  window  and  a  light  in  a  lonely  place  a  little  distance 
from  the  way,  and  heard  the  ringing  of  a  bell  like  a  supper-bell. 

"  Two  of  them  had  turned  in  toward  the  window,  but  as  they  attempted  to 


i88 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 


approach  it,  it  seemed  to  draw  back  into  the  heart  of  the  woods.  After  walk- 
ing toward  it  for  a  considerable  distance,  it  seemed  to  them  no  nearer,  and  they 
had  become  alarmed,  and  suddenly  tamed  and  fled,  believing  it  to  be  a  ghost. 


NEW   ENGLAND   GIRLS   AND   THEIR   CHAPERON,    FROM   THE   NEW    ENGLAND    KITCHEN. 

"  One  traveller,  who  had  entered  the  road  at  dusk,  had  never  been  heard  of 
again. 

"  After  these  events  any  one  who  saw  the  window  at  night  took  to  his  heels, 
and  at  last  few  persons  would  go  through  the  woods  after  dark,  except  in  a 
carriage  or  in  company. 

"  The  Dedham  woods  began  to  bear  a  bad  reputation,  but  the  dark  events 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN  THE   OLD   COLONIAL   KITCHEN.  189 

that  had  happened  there  were  assigned  to  ghosts,  and  the  vanishing  window 
and  light  were  spoken  of  as  the  '  Phantom  inn  that  travelled  away.' 

"  Was  I  ever  afraid  when  riding  alone  in  the  old  Dedham  woods?  I 
always  speak  plainly,  and  I  must  say  that  I  sometimes  was.  A  sort  of  shadow 
of  a  fear  would  come  over  me. 

"  I  never  believed  in  ghosts  or  haunted  houses  after  my  early  years.  Yet  a 
superstitious  nature  clings  to  me.  It  has  often  made  me  feel  creepy,  until  1 
stopped  to  reason.  It  stands  to  reason  that  dead  folks  don't  appear  with 
leather  boots  on,  and  hats  and  buttons  and  clothes  woven  in  looms. 

"  The  Dedham  woods  used  to  be  a  lonely  place.  It  is  mostly  farms  now. 
They  stretched  then  away  toward  the  coast.  There  were  no  towns  like  Hyde 
Park  then  ;  no  Ponkapoag  with  villas  ;  no  costly  summer  homes. 

"The  sunlit  spaces  between  the  trees  were  full  of  bluejays,  that  would 
eye  the  coach  with  outstretched  necks.  I  can  seem  to  see  them  now. 

"  The  Indian-pipe  used  to  grow  by  the  wayside,  and  back  of  it  wild  roses 
and  green  brakes  and  clematis,  which  bloomed  and  feathered  late.  The  horses 
liked  to  slack  up  in  summer,  and  walk  under  the  cool  shadows  of  the  trees. 

"  Oh,  those  were  lonely  roads  in  winter.  The  winds  used  to  whistle  like 
this  —  woo-oo-oo.  Just  as  though  they  were  spinning  —  woo-oo-oo.  They 
seemed  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  sea,  which  was  not  many  miles  away  —  woo- 
oo-oo  ;  like  that. 

"  People  began  to  move  away  to  York  State.  They  called  it  up  '  country  ' 
then.  The  Mohawk  valley  seemed  as  far  away  at  that  time  as  the  prairies  do 
now. 

"  I  had  a  good  offer  to  go  to  Albany  and  take  a  stage-route  from  there  to 
Buffalo.  I  caught  the  up  '  country  '  fever,  and  resolved  to  go. 

"  I  may  seem  weak,  but  one  of  my  greatest  regrets  on  parting  was  that  I 
would  have  to  leave  my  old  friend  Silas,  and  I  might  never  see  him  again. 

"One  day  as  I  was  stopping  at  the  old  Scituate  inn,  just  before  setting  out 
for  Albany,  I  met  a  stranger  there.  He  called  himself  Searle.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  eyes  of  that  man.  There  seemed  to  be  a  hidden  spirit,  not  himself, 
looking  through  them.  They  reminded  me  at  once  of  the  travelling  window 
and  light,  or  the  Phantom  inn. 

"  But  Silas,  the  dog  —  I  never  met  such  a  mystery  as  when  the  dog's  eyes 
first  met  those  of  that  man.  It  used  to  be  said  in  old  New  England  times  that 
dogs  would  see  ghosts  coming,  and  start  up  and  howl,  before  people  could  see 
them.  That  dog  seemed  to  see  something  mysterious  in  that  man's  eyes. 

"  He  leaped  into  the  air  when  Searle  appeared,  and  said  '  Silas.' 

He  then  shook  all  over,  dropped  on  his  feet,  and  ran  around  me,  whining  in 


1 90  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

a  fearful  tone.     What  did  it  mean?     I  have  thought  of  it  an  hundred  times  — 
what  did  it  mean? 

"  '  Coin'  up  country,  I  hear,'  said  Searle. 

"  '  Yes,  I  have  concluded  to  take  the  Albany  route/  said  I.  '  There  is  more 
money  in  it.' 

"  '  Coin'  to  take  your  dog  here  along  with  you?     He  's  a  fine  one.' 

"  '  No,'  said  I ;  '  I  '11  have  to  go  by  the  way  of  New  York,  and  up  the  river 
to  Albany,  and  I  must  leave  him.  behind.  If  I  were  going  by  the  way  of 
Springfield  I  would  take  him  along.  I  set  a  store  by  that  dog.' 

"  '  Don't  want  to  sell  him,  do  ye  ? ' 

"  There  came  a  strange  light  into  the  man's  eyes.  I  cannot  describe  it.  It 
made  me  think  of  the  travelling  window  in  the  woods  again. 

"  I  hesitated. 

"  '  Stranger,'  said  I  at  last,  '  where  do  you  live? ' 

"  '  Oh,  in  a  lonely  place  down  by  the  Dedham  ponds.  They  say  it 's 
getting  dangerous  there,  and  I  want  a  dog.  I  need  one.  Say,  as  you  're  goin' 
off,  what  will  you  take  for  him  ? ' 

"  '  I  don't  know;   I  would  n't  sell  him  for  anything  if  I  did  n't  have  to.' 

"  '  I  '11  give  you  ten  dollars  for  him.  That  is  high,  but  I  'm  lonely  like,  and 
they  say  them  woods  are  getting  dangerous.  What  do  you  say? ' 

"  '  You  may  have  him.' 

"  I  felt  somehow  that  I  had  done  an  unworthy  thing,  —  that  I  had  sold  my 
dog  to  an  unworthy  master.  That  dog  had  such  a  true  nature  that  he  would 
never  have  tricked  me  with  any  act. 

"  How  should  I  part  with  Silas?     I  felt  my  head  ache  at  the  thought  of  it 

—  the  dog  had  been  so  faithful.     I  decided  I  would  have  Searle  put  a  rope  on 

his  collar,  and  would  leave  him  in  the  evening  in  the  office  of  the  inn  with  him, 

and  so  steal   away   from   him   unknown.     I  did  so,  —  and   if  ever  I  felt  like  a 

coward,  it  was  then. 

"  Five  years  passed,  when  one  November  day  I  received  a  letter.  My  old 
friends,  the  Whites,  had  remembered  me,  and  they  invited  me  to  spend 
Thanksgiving  with  them  at  Green  Harbor. 

"  Wife's  folks  lived  in  the  old  town  of  Dedham,  and  she  urged  me  to  accept 
the  invitation,  as  she  wished  to  go  with  me  to  Dedham.  Her  folks  were  getting 
old  —  but,  poor  woman,  they  outlived  her. 

"  So  I  secured  a  driver  to  take  my  place  for  a  few  weeks,  and  we  set  out 
together  for  Boston  and  Dedham.  One  day,  late  in  November,  I  left  my  wife 
among  her  folks,  and  set  out,  intending  to  walk  over  to  Wcymouth  to  see  some 
friends,  and  there  to  take  the  stage  for  Marshfield. 


• 


FOLK-LORE   TALES  IN  THE  OLD   COLONIAL   KITCHEN. 


193 


"  I  had  expected  to  start  in  the  morning  and  make  a  day  of  it,  but  I  was 
delayed  until  the  afternoon.  It  was  delightful  Indian  summer  weather,  and  I 
did  not  mind  a  night  walk,  as  I  could  rest  in  Weymouth. 

"  '  Don't  stop  at  the  Phantom  inn,'  said  my  wife,  as  we  parted. 


IRISH    VILLAGE,   —  BLARNEY   CASTLE. 

"  '  I  sha'n't  stop  at  no  phantom  inns/  said  I,  '  if  I  expect  to  reach  Randolph 
to-night.  There  will  no  acorns  sprout  under  my  feet.' 

" '  But,'  said  my  wife's  mother,  '  they  do  tell  strange  stories  still  about  those 
woods.  Are  you  armed  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  as  much  as  I  ever  am.' 

"  '  But  you  used  to  keep  a  dog.' 

"  I  stalked  away,  laughing. 

"  Nightfall  overtook  me  on  the  border  of  the  old  Dedham  woods. 

"  I  remember  the  strange  mysterious  feeling  that  came  over  me  as  I  entered 

13 


194  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

the  shadow  of  the  pines  of  that  lonely  road  among  the  skeleton  trees.  I  stopped 
and  looked  back. 

"  As  I  stood  listening,  there  came  a  vivid  impression  that  somehow  I  was 
in  the  companionship  of  the  old  coach  dog,  as  I  used  to  be.  I  could  feel  my 
heart  shrink  as  I  recalled  how  meanly  I  had  treated  him,  and  I  eased  my 
conscience  with  the  reflection  that  I  had  done  as  well  for  him,  and  myself,  as  I 
could. 

"  That  a  dog  might  make  his  presence  felt  in  some  way  by  electrical  force 
is  possible  I  cannot  say,  but  I  repeat  it,  —  I  seemed  to  feel  that  the  old  coach 
dog  was  somewhere  near  me  in  these  woods,  and  had  a  sense  that  I  was  there. 

"  I  entered  the  lonely  way,  when  another  strange  thing  began  to  haunt  me. 
It  was  the  eyes  of  Searle.  I  had  never  forgotten  them.  I  could  almost  see 
them  again  now.  Every  rattle  in  the  savin  bushes  seemed  to  bring  them  back 
again. 

"  As  I  walked  along  with  a  witch-hazel  stick  for  a  cane,  a  great  light  rose  like 
a  fire  among  the  tops  of  the  gray  rocks  and  skeleton  trees.  It  was  a  full 
hunter's  moon  coming  up  from  the  sea.  After  a  time  it  went  into  a  cloud,  but 
the  way  was  still  clear.  It  was  almost  as  still  as  death. 

"Occasionally  a  timid  rabbit  would  cross  the  way;  once  a  white  rabbit 
leaped  out  before  me,  and  I  felt  my  heart  beat,  and  thought  again  of  the  old 
coach  dog,  Searle's  dreadful  eyes,  and  the  tales  of  the  Phantom  inn,  at  which 
I  used  to  laugh  when  I  drove  the  cape  stage. 

"  The  way  grew  more  lonely,  amid  the  oaks  and  the  russet  leaves,  savins,  pines, 
and  rocks.  In  places  the  road  was  strewn  with  fallen  nuts,  and  at  some  points 
with  rustling  leaves.  Once  the  eyes  of  a  white  owl  confronted  me  on  a 
decaying  limb  —  I  thought  again  of  Searle. 

"I  hurried  on,  hoping  to  reach  Randolph  before  midnight,  when  suddenly 
I  heard  a  sound  that  stopped  my  feet  at  once  and  sent  a  chill  over  me.  It  was 
a  hollow  tone,  like  the  ringing  of  a  supper-bell,  such  as  used  to  be  common  in 
the  farmhouses  and  inns. 

"  I  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  when  I  saw  a  little  way  from  the 
road  a  window  and  a  light  among  the  trees.  I  stopped  nervously. 

"  '  Is  it  imagination,'  I  asked  myself.  'Is  it  a  dream  of  the  old  story  ? 
Shall  I  run,  or  turn  toward  the  bell  ? ' 

"  I  was  frightened  and  my  heart  beat,  but  I  am  not  a  man  to  run.  After 
hesitating  for  a  few  moments  I  turned  into  the  wood  in  the  direction  of 
the  window  and  the  light,  and  found  a  path  there  which  I  began  to  follow 
cautiously. 

"  I  walked  to  the  place  where  I  had  first  heard  the  bell  and  seen  the  window 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN   THE   OLD   COLONIAL  KITCHEN,  195 

and  the  light,  but  the  window  and  the  light  were  apparently  as  far  away  now 
as  when  I  started  from  the  road.  As  I  watched  I  could  see  it  move  back,  but 
I  could  hear  nothing. 

"  I  stopped  again.  The  window  and  the  light  soon  seemed  to  stop.  Should 
I  run  ?  No.  I  would  shout.  So  I  cried  out,  '  Hullo !  ' 

"  The  rocks  answered  my  loud  call  with  many  echoes.  A  startled  partridge 
rose  on  whirring  wings  from  some  wild  alder-bushes  near  me.  Then  all  was 
still,  or —  did  I  imagine  it  ?  —  I  thought  I  could  hear  the  low  piteous  suppressed 
whine  of  a  dog.  The  light  vanished. 

"  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  I  was  unarmed.  I  went  forward  very  slowly  and 
cautiously,  when  the  path  grew  soft,  and  the  earth  began  to  crumble  beneath 
my  feet.  I  paused  and  listened. 

"  A  cry  pierced  the  hollow  air.     How  can  I  describe  it  ?     It  thrilled  every 
nerve  in  my  body.     I  can  hear  it  now;   it  seemed  as  though  all  the  intensity  of 
a  human  heart  was  in  it  —  it  said,  it  shrieked  as  the  cry  of  some  pent-up  force, 
—  it  said,  — 

"'Silas!' 

"  I  knew  the  voice.  It  was  a  warning  tone.  I  knew  that  dog's  tone  of 
warning.  I  stepped  back  and  listened  again. 

"  I  heard  a  struggle  down  in  the  distance.  Where  was  I?  It  came  to  me. 
I  was  on  the  border  of  a  ledge  of  rocks.  Below  me  was  a  pond.  Had  I  taken 
a  few  steps  more  I  would  have  gone  over  into  the  water. 

"  I  felt  that  the  way  led  to  a  false  projection  over  the  water.  I  had  been 
drawn  toward  a  trap  to  destroy  me.  I  felt  the  situation  then  as  clearly  as  I  can 
see  it  now. 

"  My  every  nerve  quivered  with  terror,  but  my  will  grew  stronger  than  ever 
before.  I  never  knew  how  strong  or  how  weak  I  was  till  then. 

"  As  I  stood  listening,  a  fearful  oath  rose  from  the  pond.  Then  all  was 
still.  I  looked  up  to  the  sky.  It  was  the  only  object  that  seemed  friendly. 
The  clouds  parted  below  the  hunter's  moon,  and  a  wide  silvery  light  swept  over- 
the  scene.  I  was  surely  on  a  projecting  edge  of  rock,  or  platform,  over  a  pond. 

"  Suddenly  I  heard  a  sound  in  the  bushes.  It  was  a  patter  of  feet.  A  dog 
came  bounding  out  of  the  savins  toward  me.  He  rose  up,  springing  as  it  were 
into  the  air,  shook  his  paws,  and  cried,  —  I  can  hear  it  now,  — 

"'Silas!' 

"  It  was  my  old  coach  dog. 

"  I  hurried  back  to  the  road,  followed  by  the  dog.  Was  it  a  dream? 
What  had  happened? 

"  At  near  midnight  I  came  to  my  old  friend's  farmhouse  at  Randolph,  and 
roused  the  family.  Before  any  one  could  speak  I  pointed  to  the  dog. 


196 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 


"  '  Tell  me,  for  heaven's  sake,  what  is  that?  '  I  cried. 

"  '  That  is  a  dog,'  said  my  old  friend,  the  farmer,  —  'your  old  coach  dog. 
What  did  you  think  it  was?  Where  did  you  find  him?' 

"  We  went  the  next  morning  to  the  scene  of  my  night's  adventure.  One  of 
the  first  things  that  we  saw  was  the  dead  body  of  Searle,  floating  on  the  pond. 

"  The  light  in  the  window  of  the  Phantom  inn  had  allured  me  to  the  edge 


SCENE   IN    OLD   VIENNA. 

of  a  broad,  false  precipice,  and  I  was  just  about  to  fall  over  into  the  pond  when 
my  old  coach  dog's  warning  word  had  saved  me.  The  dog  had  evidently 
dragged  his  dark-minded  master  over  the  rocky  cliff  into  the  pond. 

"  Searle.  had  carried  the  window  and  light  in  his  hand,  and  with  covered 
feet  had  moved  back  to  allure  travellers. 

"  '  Silas?'  Yes,  I  must  answer  that  question.  What  became  of  him  ?  I 
took  him  back  to  Albany  with  me.  He  was  an  old  dog  then,  and  used  to 
repeat  that  word  in  his  distress.  He  said  it  more  than  once  on  the  day  that 
he  died." 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN  THE   OLD   COLONIAL  KITCHEN.  197 

Another  story,  related  by  Mr.  Marlowe,  which  was  quite  appropri- 
ate to  the  place,  was  as  follows :  — 


THE   GREAT   CHESHIRE   CHEESES. 

THE  Masons,  whose  history  I  used  to  hear,  were  among  the  founders  of 
New  Providence,  the  vanished  village  of  the  autumnal  Berkshire  Hills.  I  well 
recall  the  stories  of  Elder  Leland  that  I  used  to  hear  in  my  old  Swansea  home, 
and  especially  the  awful  ghost-story  that  the  courtly  evangelist  used  to  relate 
confidentially  to  a  few  friends.  No  Rhode  Island  farmer's  boy  of  thirty  years 
ago  will  ever  forget  that,  and  any  allusion  to  it  would  make,  in  those  days, 
young  feet  nimble  in  dark  chambers  and  on  lonesome  roads. 

Times  have,  indeed,  changed.  No  ghost-story,  however  vivid,  would  be 
likely  to  make  a  Rhode  Island  boy  nervous  to-day. 

I  recall  also  the  more  cheerful  story  of  the  great  Cheshire  Cheese,  as  we 
used  to  hear  it,  and  have  often  repeated,  in  my  young  churning  days,  the  New 
Providence  receipt  for  turning  cream  into  butter  under  the  miracle-working 
influence  of  the  old-time  dasher :- 

"  Come,  butter,  come  ; 
Peter  stands  at  the  gate, 
Waiting  for  the  butter-cake, 
Come,  butter,  come." 

The  rhyme  of  this  persuasive  ditty  is  not  perfect,  and  I  am  unable  to  say 
who  "  Peter "  was,  though  the  name  sounds  Apostolic;  but  the  Cheshire  and 
Rhode  Island  farmers'  wives  could  all  declare  that  this  brief  invocation  gave  a 
wonderful  efficacy  to  the  churn-dasher. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  excursion  into  Cheshire  to  visit  the  once 
famous  farms  of  New  Providence,  and  the  graves  of  Elder  Leland  and  the 
heroes  of  Bennington.  It  was  a  glimmering  September  day,  such  as  brings 
the  tourist  of  New  York  to  Lenox,  not  far  away. 

The  sky  was  an  over-sea  of  gold.  The  Housatonic  lay,  here  like  a  mirror 
of  glass  in  the  brown  woodland  pastures,  there  purling  amid  purple  gentians 
over  mossy  dams. 

The  wrecks  of  old  orchard  trees  dotted  the  landscape ;  fading  beech-trees, 
with  their  bark  perforated  by  the  long  bills  of  the  golden-winged  woodpeckers; 
aftermath  in  alluvial  meadows ;  cornfields  with  orange  banners  on  the  uplands, 
and,  over  all,  Greylock,  green-wooded  and  maple-tinted,  looking  clown  the  valley. 


1 98  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Graveyards  — like  little  villages  of  the  dead  —  with  mossy  stones,  touched 
the  heart  and  fancies,  and  the  town  at  last  came  full  in  view,  with  its  white  spire 
and  faded  inn. 

"Where  is  New  Providence?"  I  asked  of  an  old  man  who  had  stopped  to 
rest  on  the  cool  russet  sward  under  a  leafy  maple,  where  the  locusts  were  sing- 
ing in  the  bright  air. 

"  There  is  no  New  Providence  any  more,"  said  he.  "  It  is  all  gone :  the 
hotels,  the  stores,  the  churches,  all  —  there  is  not  a  house  left.  There  is  where 
it  was." 

He  pointed  toward  a  sunny  slope.  How  beautiful  was  the  situation  !  But 
there  was  not  so  much  as  a  house  or  an  orchard.  Shades  of  Oliver  Gold- 
smith !  Could  it  be  possible  that  here  in  New  England  was  a  veritable 
Deserted  Village? 

"The  inhabitants  of  New  Providence  all  sleep  in  a  little  graveyard  under 
the  hill,"  said  the  stranger,  filling  his  pipe.  "  That  was  once  New  Providence 
Purchase,  and  was  settled  from  Providence  Plantations.  It  is  now  called 
Stafford  Hill. 

"  Old  Captain  Joab  Stafford,  the  hero  of  Bennington,  is  buried  in  the  old 
graveyard,  near  the  road.  You*  can  see  his  grave  as  you  pass  by." 

New  Providence  began  in  a  pleasant  joke.  Old  generous  Captain  Stafford, 
who  was  brought  wounded  at  last  from  Bennington  to  his  pleasant  home  and 
tavern,  built  his  house  in  New  Providence  Purchase  before  he  brought  his  wife 
from  Rhode  Island. 

When  his  fine  house  was  completed,  he  went  after  Mrs.  Stafford,  but 
refused  to  give  her  any  description  of  his  new  place.  Across  the  Connecticut 
on  horseback  they  hastened  toward  the  mountains. 

"  Now  as  we  ride  along,"  said  he,  "  and  notice  the  new  settlements,  tell  me 
when  we  come  to  just  such  a  house  as  you  would  like." 

They  rode  through  Cheshire,  once  called  the  Kitchen,  and  at  last  the  good 
woman  lifted  her  eyes  to  a  bowery  hill  almost  in  the  shadow  of  Greylock. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  said  she.  "  There  is  just  such  a  home  and  place 
as  I  should  like  to  have.  If  I  could  only  live  there,  I  would  be  perfectly 
satisfied." 

"  You  shall  live  there,"  said  her  gallant  husband      "  That  is  our  home." 

Out  of  that  vanished  house  he  was  borne  down  the  hill  to  his  last  resting- 
place  in  the  valley  below,  and  poets  and  orators  spoke  his  praise. 

Elder  John  Leland,  born  in  Grafton,  Massachusetts,  in  1754,  came  to 
Cheshire  when  quite  a  young  man.  He  was  on  one  occasion  called  upon  to 
speak  from  the  pulpit,  when  the  pastor  was  absent.  There  came  to  him  a  flow 


FOLK-LORE  TALES  IN   THE   OLD   COLONIAL   KITCHEN,  2OI 

of  words  and  ideas  which  astonished  his  hearers  much  and  himself  more,  and 
he  felt  that  he  was  allotted  to  be  a  preacher.  He  was  a  Baptist-Quaker,  like 
Roger  Williams. 

It  has  been  asserted  that  his  influence  made  Madison  President  He  trav- 
elled to  a  distance  of  many  thousand  miles,  preaching;  crowds  followed  him 
everywhere,  and  queer  stories  of  his  eccentricities  were  repeated  by  every 
fireside. 

Among  the  old  Cheshire  humorists  and  the  old  story-tellers  of  the  tavern 
at  New  Providence,  and  the  half-way  inn  at  Cheshire  on  the  old  Boston  and 
Albany  stage-route,  were  gallant  Captain  Stafford,  the  Bennington  hero,  Free- 
love  Mason,  the  jolly  mistress  of  the  first  regular  stage-route  hostelry,  William 
Brown,  or  "  Sweet  Billy,"-  — the  "  Artemas  Ward"  of  Berkshire,  — Elder  John 
Leland,  whose  jokes  were  echoed  ever  by  the  sounding-board  over  his  tall 
pulpit,  and  the  rich  old  farmers  by  the  name  of  Mason,  Brown,  Wood,  and 
Cole,  and  the  stage-drivers. 

The  story  of  the  great  Cheshire  Cheese  was  once  a  New  England  wonder- 
tale,  but  was  seldom  correctly  told,  in  all  of  its  essential  details.  The  making 
of  it  furnishes  a  picture  of  the  early  humor  of  the  village,  than  which  few 
pastoral  scenes  can  be  more  pleasing,  or  more  widely  in  contrast  with  many 
of  the  grim  Puritan  legends.  Cheshire  has  a  cheese-factory  now;  then  every 
farm  had  a  cheese-press.  There  was  joy  among  the  industrious  dames  of 
Cheshire,  when  the  old  stage-driver  of  the  Berkshire  Hills  blew  his  horn,  and 
swung  his  hat,  and  shouted,  "  Hurrah  for  President  Jefferson !  "  The  buxom 
dairy-women  had  been  well-schooled  in  Democratic  politics  by  Elder  Leland, 
himself  an  intimate  friend  of  Jefferson,  and  a  disciple  of  the  broad  principles  of 
the  Declaration. 

"  Toot,  toot  for  Jefferson !  "  rung  out  the  horn  and  voice  of  Cameralsman, 
the  lusty  stage-driver,  as  he  passed  through  the  thrifty  Mason  farms. 

"  Jefferson  it  is ! "  said  Freelove  Mason,  the  ruddiest  dame  of  the  Berkshire 
Hills ;  "  and  how  shall  we  celebrate  our  victory  like  free  and  honest  people 
that  we  are  ?  " 

"How?"   said  the   Cheshire   dames.     "We  will   make  the   biggest  cheese 
ever  pressed  in  America,  —  such  an  one  as  the  farmers  have  been  joking  about, 
—  and  send  it  to  the  new  President  for  a  present.     Every  cow  in  Berkshire  shall 
furnish  the  milk  for  the  curd." 

I  need  not  say  that  the  great  cheese  was  made.  All  the  Yankee  world 
knows  that.  The  summer  of  bobolinks  and  morning-glories  that  followed  the 
political  spring  of  happiness  in  Cheshire  saw  a  great  gathering  of  curds  on  a 


202  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

certain  day,  and  all  the  kirtled  dames  met  at  Elisha  Brown's,  and  compounded 
the  mammoth  gift  to  the  President. 

It  was  pressed  in  a  cider-mill,  and  if  it  did  not  require  four  horses  to  draw 
it,  it  is  said  that  that  number  was  harnessed  to  the  vehicle  that  brought  it  from 
the  press,  where  it  had  been  pressed  for  ten  days.  It  weighed  one  thousand 
two  hundred  and  thirty-five  pounds,  was  carried  to  the  Hudson  and  shipped  to 
Washington.  Elder  Leland  went  with  the  great  cheese,  "  preaching,"  as  he 
said,  "  all  the  way." 

The  stately  correspondence  between  Leland  and  Jefferson,  in  offering  and 
accepting  the  gift,  is  still  preserved.  Those  were  the  days  when  every  voter 
supposed  himself  to  be  a  born  king  by  right  of  the  Constitution,  and  it 
took  the  old  formal  style  of  writing  to  express  the  sentiments  of  the  new 
monarchs.  Jefferson's  letter,  accepting  the  great  cheese,  was  worthy  of  the 
author  of  "  When  in  the  course  of  human  events." 

Elder  Leland,  tall  and  courtly,  was  well  adapted  to  the  dramatic  part  of 
the  occasion.  A  grander  commoner  never  entered  the  Republican  court. 
Jefferson  had  often  met  the  great  revival  preacher  in  Virginia,  for  Leland  depop- 
ulated towns  to  listen  to  his  fiery  eloquence  wherever  he  went.  His  calling  to 
the  ministry,  like  Saint  Paul's,  had  come,  as  he  believed,  in  the  form  of  a  voice 
out  of  the  skies,  and  his  tongue,  to  use  the  old  Hebrew  simile  common  in  the 
old  days,  had  been  "  touched  by  a  burning  coal  from  the  altar." 

There  are  few  preachers  like  Leland  to-day.  Eloquent  as  the  old  Meth- 
odist field  preachers,  elegant  and  courtly  as  a  Camille  Desmoulins,  witty  as  a 
Swift  or  Steele,  and  far  in  advance  of  his  times  in  the  liberality  of  his  opinions, 
a  theological  disciple  of  Roger  Williams  and  Samson  Mason,  and  a  political 
follower  of  Jefferson,  he  was  not  only  a  remarkable  preacher,  but  one  of  the 
most  noted  men  of  his  time.  He  labored  as  a  winter  revivalist  in  Virginia  for 
many  years,  before  he  made  his  home  in  Cheshire. 

It  was  one  of  the  humors  of  the  time  to  relate  events  of  a  pleasing  charac- 
ter in  the  style  of  the  Hebrew  Chronicles,  and  the  Chronicle  of  the  Cheshire 
Cheese  was  once  well-known  in  the  story-telling  town.  It  began :  - 

"And  Jacknips  said  unto  the  Cheshirites,  '  Behold,  the  Lord  hath  put  a 
ruler  over  us  that  is  after  our  own  hearts.  Now  let  us  gather  together  our 
curds,  and  carry  them  into  the  valley  of  Elisha,  unto  his  wine-press,  and  there 
make  a  great  cheese,  that  we  may  make  a  thank-offering  unto  the  great 
man.'  Now  this  saying  pleased  the  Cheshirites,  so  they  did  as  Jacknips  had 
commanded." 

The  great  Cheshire  Cheese  was  shared  by  the  President  with  the  governors 
of  several  States,  to  whom  samples  were  sent.  The  story  of  it  was  a  great 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN   THE   OLD    COLONIAL   KITCHEN. 


2O' 


SPANISH    BUILDING. 


advertisement  of  Berkshire  County;   and  it  was  resolved  to  make  a  still  larger 
cheese,  which  should  weigh  sixteen  hundred  pounds. 

Elder  Leland's  church  was  famous  for  its  psalmody.  He  himself  wrote 
man}r  hymns,  among  them  the  almost  Ambrosian  tone-picture, — 

"  The  day  is  past  and  gone." 

He  used  sometimes  to  ascend  the  pulpit  singing. 

There  was  one  of  the  numerous  Brown  family  of  Cheshire  who  was  a 
famous  singer  in  his  day,  and  to  him  we  will  assign  a  popular  story  of  the 
time.  His  voice  not  only  filled  the  church,  but  went  out  of  the  window.  His 
bass  notes  were  deep  and  full, —  "foot-notes,"  he  called  them, —  and  it  was  his 
special  pride  to  inform  the  people  in  the  then  masterpiece  of  country-church 
choir  music  how 


204  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  The  angel  of 
The  angel  of 

The  Lord  came  down. 
And  glory  shone  around, 
And  glory 
And  g-1-o-r-y,  etc." 

During  the  great  winter  revivals  in  Elder  Leland's  church,  Singer  Brown  was 
all  eyes,  ears,  and  voice.  But  the  dairy-making  season  that  produced  the  sweet 
butter  and  mammoth  cheeses  for  which  Cheshire  became  famous  was  very 
trying  to  his  eyelids,  during  the  long  Sunday  sermons,  and  the  tithing-man 
often  had  a  sore  trial  to  keep  his  attention  steady  after  the  "sixthly"  or 
"  seventhly." 

It  was  all  so  restful  in  the  old  church,  —  the  bobolinks  singing  in  the  clover 
outside,  the  red-breasted  robins  in  the  tall  trees !  The  cool  breezes  came  into 
the  windows  from  the  hayfields,  over  which  the  cloud-shadows  passed. 

Then,  too,  even  fiery  Elder  Leland's  voice  had  a  far-away  sound  when  he 
came  to  the  usual  part  of  a  New  England  sermon  about  the  Jews  in  Jerusalem, 
and  still  more  dreary  was  it  when  the  Jews  were  in  Babylon. 

Singer  Brown,  on  such  occasions,  would  become  oblivious  of  both  the  Jews 
and  the  Gentiles,  and  would  have  to  be  waked  by  the  vigilant  tithing-man. 

Elder  Leland  himself  had  a  genius  for  waking  people  on  such  restful  and 
balmy  days.  Once,  when  a  farmer  under  the  gallery  had  fallen  asleep  and 
tipped  back  his  head,  with  his  mouth  stretched  open  from  ear  to  ear,  some 
very  imaginative  boys  in  the  gallery  stuck  a  pin  into  a  bean  and  lowered  it 
down  by  a  string  to  the  open  mouth,  like  a  bucket  into  a  well. 

When  the  tall  Elder  saw  it  he  didn't  rebuke  the  boys,  but  seizing  the  Bible, 
slammed  it  down  on  the  pulpit  with  a  cannon  shake,  at  the  same  time  calling 
out  to  the  poor  man  :  "  Wake  up  !  wake  up  !  " 

The  industrious  farmer's  slumbers  were  broken  by  these  gentle  circum- 
stances, and  he  was  enabled  to  follow  the  wanderings  of  the  Jews  during  the 
rest  of  the  sermon. 

But  Singer  Brown,  on  one  Sunday,  fell  asleep  beside  the  old  bass-viol  amid 
such  scandalous  consequences  that  the  tithing-man,  the  clerk,  and  the  venerable 
deacons  never  forgave  him. 

It  all  is  supposed  to  have  happened  in  the  summer  of  1803,  the  third  year 
of  the  reign  of  the  universal  Kings  under  the  good  King  Commoner,  Thomas 
Jefferson,  when  ambitious  people  of  Cheshire  had  put  their  heads  together  to 
make  a  bigger  cheese  than  the  one  that  had  been  made  for  their  chosen  Presi- 
dent. The  history  of  this  cheese  is  often  confused  with  the  Jeffersonian 
present. 


FOLK-LORE   TALES  IN  THE   OLD   COLONIAL  KITCHEN.  207 

One  Sunday  morning  in  June,  Goody  Brown  gave  to  her  consort,  Singer 
Billy,  the  long-necked  pitcher,  and  sent  him  to  the  neighbors  for  milk.  Billy 
went  from  house  to  house,  but  was  refused. 

"  Not  to-day,  Billy,"  said  every  one ;  "  we  are  saving  our  milk  for  the  big 
cheese,  you  know." 

After  Billy  had  wandered  about  amid  the  dews  to  the  Masons',  the  Wag- 
goners', and  others,  without  success,  although  all  the  pantries  were  overflowing, 
he  obtained  a  pint  of  milk  at  last  from  a  Federalist,  who  was  not  in  full  sym- 
pathy even  with  the  enterprises  of  the  community. 

It  was  now  church  time,  and  he  was  to  sing  bass  to  "  The  Lord  descended 
from  above  "  that  day,  in  his  view  a  stupendous  performance.  So  he  took 
his  milk-pitcher  along  with  him  to  the  church,  and  up  into  the  choir-loft. 

A  red  curtain  hung  on  rings  ran  before  the  singers  in  the  choir.  The 
music  books  were  placed  on  racks,  and  the  choir  was  directly  over  the  high 
pulpit,  the  deacon's  seat,  and  the  clerk's  pew.  A  huge  sounding-board  hung 
over  the  pulpit,  which  was  a  kind  of  mahogany  pen,  with  stairs  on  each  side, 
and  doors.  The  top  of  the  pulpit  reached  almost  to  the  choir. 

Singer  Billy  sang  well  that  morning  the  sonorous  music  of  William  Billings 
of  Stoughton,  and  touched  the  "  foot-notes  "  with  impressive  clearness. 

Then  he  felt  that  his  work  was  over,  and  began  to  be  oblivious  to  the  truth 
that  was  being  proclaimed  under  the  sounding-board.  The  old  deacons,  too, 
after  all  the  excitements  of  mowing,  milkings,  and  the  preparations  for  making 
of  the  new  cheese,  were  not  in  the  most  receptive  mood,  but  felt  the  world 
gliding  away  from  them  in  various  ways. 

The  clerk  fell  quite  asleep,  and  wandered  away  in  the  far  regions  of 
air  beyond  the  solid  continents  of  all  theologies.  Even  the  tithing-man  had 
dropped  his  rod. 

In  this  hour,  when  watchfulness  had  ceased,  disaster  came,  and  brought  a 
scandal  upon  the  descendants  of  the  heroic  Samson  Mason,  and  upon  all. 

A  dog  came  trotting  up  the  choir  stairs.  He,  too,  had  found  milk  scarce 
that  morning,  and  smelling  Singer  Billy's  pitcher  near  the  red  curtain,  looked 
around  and  found  that  Billy  and  most  of  the  singers  were  quite  indifferent  to 
current  events.  He  ran  his  head  down  the  long  neck  of  the  pitcher  toward 
the  pint  of  milk  in  the  great  hollow  below. 

But  while  the  descent  of  his  head  into  the  pitcher  was  easy,  the  withdrawing 
of  it  was  otherwise.  His  head  would  not  come  out.  He  put  up  his  inefficient 
paws  and  rubbed  the  outside  of  the  pitcher  ;  he  moved  to  and  fro,  backward 
and  forward.  At  last,  not  knowing  where  he  was  going,  he  passed  quite  under 
the  red  curtain,  and  finally  succeeded  in  pushing  the  pitcher  over  the  balcony. 


208  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

There  was  an  alarming  crash  in  the  deacon's  pew.  Was  ever  anything  so 
extraordinary?  It  was  not  a  centaur  that  had  come  down,  half  horse  and  half 
man,  but  a  yet  more  marvellous  beast,  half  dog  and  half  pitcher.  The  pitcher 
was  broken  to  fragments;  the  dog  howled  pitifully;  the  clerk  and  the  deacons 
all  awoke  at  once,  and  the  tithing-man  leaped  to  his  feet. 

Singer  Brown,  too,  suddenly  came  down  from  the  blissful  clover-gardens  of 
dreamland,  and  looking  over  the  curtain  on  the  scene  of  mystery  and  disaster 
below,  comprehended  at  a  glance  all  that  had  happened.  He  prophetically  cal- 
culated the  future,  and  quickly  slipped  down  the  stairs,  and  out  of  the  church. 
When  questioned  about  the  matter,  he  said,  with  unusual  dignity,  — 

"  What  but  humiliation  could  you  have  expected  from  a  people  whose  hearts 
had  turned  to  the  worship  of  cheeses?  " 

I  stood  recently  in  the  old  Cheshire  churchyard  by  the  grave  of  good 
Elder  Leland,  and  read  with  a  tender  reverence  the  following  simple  inscrip- 
tion, on  his  tombstone,  which  had  been  prepared  by  himself:  — 

"  Here  lies  John  Leland  of  Cheshire,  who  labored  to  promote  piety  and  to  vindi- 
cate the  civil  and  religious  rights  of  all  men. " 

His  "  Evening  Hymn  "  is  his  true  monument,  but  he  will  long  be  a  figure 
in  the  history  of  that  quaint  past. 

"  TRIP-TRIP-TO-DEE-DEE." 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORY. 

A  HAND  was  raised  in  the  reading-class. 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

"  What  became  of  that  man?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  James.     This  reading  lesson  is  a  humorous  story." 

I  was  a  teacher  when  the  unexpected  question  was  asked  me.  The  second 
class  in  reading  used  a  book,  long  ago  out  of  print,  that  was  called  the  "  Intro- 
duction to  the  American  Common  School  Reader  and  Speaker."  Some  of  my 
readers  may  recall  it.  It  contained  a  single  humorous  selection,  entitled  "A 
Melting  Story."  It  was  this  selection  that  had  been  read,  when  my  honest 
pupil,  James,  asked  the  question,  — 

"  What  became  of  that  man?  " 

"  That  man  "  was  the  unhappy  subject  of  the  reading-book  story.  One 
cold  winter's  night  he  had  slipped  into  a  country  store  while  the  keeper  had 
gone  out  to  close  the  blinds,  and  had  stolen  a  pound  ball  of  butter,  and  put  it  into 
his  hat,  and  replaced  the  hat,  with  the  butter  ball  in  the  top  of  the  crown,  on 


FOLK-LURE    TALES  IN   THE    OLD    COLONIAL   KITCHEN.  2OQ 

his  head.  The  storekeeper  saw  the  act,  and  determined  to  punish  the  thief  in 
as  cunning  a  way  as  the  theft  had  been  committed.  He  rushed  into  the  store, 
confronted  the  butter  stealer,  and  compelled  him  to  sit  down  by  the  stove.  He 
filled  the  stove  with  wood,  and  began  to  talk  in  a  lively  manner,  and,  adding 
seasoned  wood  to  the  roaring  fire,  made  the  place  so  hot  that  the  butter 
melted  in  the  thief's  hat,  and  ran  down  over  his  face  and  shoulders. 

The  thief,  thus  detained,  made  many  excuses  to  get  away,  but  the  store- 
keeper would  not  accept  them,  but  held  him  in  torture,  his  face  and  hair 
dripping  with  the  butter.  At  last,  when  the  butter  had  thoroughly  oiled  his 
woful  guest,  he  rose  and  said :  "  I  say,  Seth,  the  fun  that  I  have  had  out  of  you 
to-night  will  well  pay  me  for  that  pound  of  butter.  I  shall  not  charge  it,"  or 
words  with  this  meaning.  This  selection  of  reading  was  very  popular  in  old 
schools  forty  years  ago. 

I  well  recall  the  class  that  read  this  selection.  It  stretched  across  the  plat- 
form in  a  zigzag  row.  Some  of  the  boys  were  tall,  some  short,  and  the  girls 
who  stood  at  the  head  read  much  better  than  the  boys.  The  days  usually 
began  to  grow  long,  and  the  snows  to  melt  and  drip  from  the  icicles  on  the 
roof,  when  we  reached  this  selection,  which  was  near  the  end  of  the  book.  The 
windows  looked  out  on  the  long  snowscapes,  broken  by  icy  woods  and  green 
savin  trees.  At  a  little  distance  the  simple  church  spire  was  seen  gleaming 
under  the  blue  sky,  and  the  dark  slate-stones  in  the  churchyard  were  a  constant 
reminder  of  the  mortality  of  us  all. 

The  pupils  brought  their  dinners  in  tin  dinner  pails,  and  often  shared  their 
sweet-breads  with  each  other.  Some  of  the  pupils  were  very  poor,  and  could 
only  bring  corn  bread  for  the  noon  lunch.  James's  father  was  a  prosperous 
farmer,  and  provided  him  with  generous  lunches,  and  he  used  to  share  them 
with  the  poor  boys  and  girls.  I  had  learned  to  love  him  for  these  acts  of 
generosity.  James  was  as  honest  as  he  was  generous.  He  had  a  very  sym- 
pathetic nature,  and  it  was  this  that  prompted  him  to  ask  with  a  serious  face 
while  the  rest  of  the  class  were  laughing,  - 

"  What  became  of  that  man  ?  " 

The  question  haunted  me  for  the  half  hour  that  the  reading  exercise  con- 
tinued, though  I  had  regarded  the  story  as  a  fiction.  Just  before  I  dismissed 
the  class  I  said,  — 

"  James,  I  should  think  from  your  tone  of  vojce  and  serious  look  that  you 
rather  sympathized  with  the  thief." 

"  If  we  knew  all  things  in  people's  hearts,  we  should  pity  everybody,"  he 
said.  "  The  Bible  says  that  if  a  man  be  overtaken  in  a  fault,  those  that  have 
spiritual  strength  should  restore  him.  I  would  never  have  published  a  story 

14 


210  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

like  that.     I  would  have  given  the  man   a  chance  to   regain   his  self-respect. 
Would  n't  you  ?  " 

I  can  see. him  now,  —  his  manly,  handsome  face,  clear  blue  eyes,  high  color, 
and  intensity  of  expression.  Five  years  afterwards  he  entered  Andover  Semi- 
nary, and  the  feathery  palms  of  a  missionary  graveyard  under  a  tropic  sky  wave 
over  his  dead  body  now. 

The  pupils  dropped  their  slates,  and  the  class  lowered  their  books  to  hear 
what  I  would  say.  I  hesitated.  The  schoolroom  grew  painfully  still,  the  wood 
roared  on  the  fire  of  the  stove,  and  the  evergreen,  or  creeping-jenny,  that  had 
been  turned  around  the  stove-pipe,  crackled  and  fell. 

"  I  should  feel  that  it  was  a  duty  that  I  owe  to  the  public  safety  to  expose 
a  thief,"  I  answered.  "  Would  n't  you,  James  ?  " 

"  I  had  rather  change  an  evil-doer  into  an  honest  man,"  he  replied.  "  In 
that  case  he  might  never  steal  again.  I  "  -  he  hesitated.  There  was  the  same 
painful  stillness  in  the  room. 

"  What,  James?  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  that  man  is  still  living  in  Maine,  and  that  after  that 
joke  he  lost  all  regard  for  respectability,  and  became  a  beggar.  I  do  not  know 
that  the  report  is  true,  but  a  man  from  Portland  told  my  father  so  in  my 
hearing."  The  stillness  continued.  He  added :  "  Governor  Winthrop  forgave 
a  thief  who  robbed  hjs  woodpile,  by  sending  for  him  and  offering  to  give  him 
the  wood  he  needed." 

The  term  drew  to  its  close.  Washington's  Birthday  passed,  the  bell  ringing 
out  in  the  little  white  steeple.  The  March  days  grew  long  and  bright,  with 
occasional  flurries  of  snow;  the  bluebirds  came  fluting  into  the  gray  orchards; 
the  woodpeckers  tapped  the  hollow  trees,  and  the  wild  geese  passed  over, 
honking  like  flying  trumpets  or  mellow  horns  in  the  sky.  Early  April  brought 
examination  day.  The  grave  committee  came,  making  my  little  principality 
tremble ;  heard  the  classes  recite,  read,  and  spell,  made  a  "  few  remarks,"  and 
then  the  winter  school  was  over. 

I  can  see  those  old  pupils  now,  as  they  stood  in  the  yard  about  the  door 
in  the  late  April  afternoon,  their  faces  bright  in  the  western  sunlight.  I  never 
met  them  again  as  I  saw  them  then. 

I  parted  with  James  with  peculiar  reluctance,  as  he  was  one  of  the  most  high- 
minded  boys  that  I  had  ever  met,  and  had  a  heart  to  feel  and  a  hand  to  help. 

On  examination  day  the  "  Melting  Story"  was  read,  which  elicited  from  one 
of  the  members  of  the  committee  the  rugged  remark  :  — 

"  That's  a  good  one;  served  him  right;  it  wouldn't  ha'  been  improper  for 
the  boys  to  laugh  after  a  story  like  that,  would  it,  teacher?  " 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN  THE   OLD   COLONIAL   KITCHEN.  211 

"  No,"  I  answered.     "  I  allow  them  to  laugh  in  such  a  case." 

But  the  class  did  not  laugh.  James's  inquiries  in  regard  to  the  narrative  had 
changed  the  spirit  of  all  the  young  readers. 

The  impression  that  James  had  made  haunted  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  story  was  incomplete,  and  I  carried  the  sympathetic  inquiry  of  my  pupil 
in  my  mind  :  "  What  became  of  that  man  ?  " 

One  blue  April  day,  a  few  years  after  the  incident  that  had  occurred  in  my 
dear  old  class,  I  was  walking  the  streets  of  a  great  seaport  city  in  Maine,  when 
a  very  strange  scene  met  my  eye. 

Two  boys  came,  as  it  were,  flying  from  a  narrow  street  into  a  public  square, 
each  screaming  at  the  top  of  his  voice,— 

"  Trip-Trip-to-dee-dee  !     Trip-Trip-to-dee-dee  !     Who  stole  the  butter?  " 

My  eye  followed  them  in  lively  curiosity,  and  at  once  the  old  story  in  the 
reading-book  and  James's  inquiry  came  rushing  back  to  my  mind.  I  had  heard 
that  there  were  two  stories  of  this  kind,  and  which  one  had  given  rise  to  the 
popular  reading-book  narrative  could  hardly  be  determined  except  by  the 
author,  of  whom  I  knew  nothing. 

What  followed  caused  me  to  stand  still.  A  poor,  wretched-looking  old 
man,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm,  came  hobbling  and  jumping  out  of  the  same 
street,  with  a  cobblestone  in  one  hand.  He  was  evidently  chasing  the  boys. 
As  he  entered  the  square,  the  boys  turned  around  and  cried  again,  — 

"  Trip-Trip-to-dee-dee  !     Who  stole  the  butter  ?     Who  stole  the  butter  ?  " 

The  old  man  came  to  a  halt,  and,  with  wild  eyes  and  a  frantic  movement, 
threw  the  stone  at  the  boys.  They  dodged  the  revengeful  missile,  and  skipped 
away,  calling,  — 

"  Trip-Trip-to-dee-dee  !     Trip-Trip-to-dee-dee  !  " 

A  well-dressed  stranger  stopped  near  to  see  the  odd  episode. 

"  Who  is  that  old  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  that  is  Trip-Trip-to-Day-Day.  He  is  a  character  here.  The  boys 
torment  him.  They  like  to  have  him  chase  them.  There  are  few  boys  in  this 
part  of  the  city  that  he  has  not  chased." 

"What  is  his  occupation  ?  "  I  continued. 

"  Oh,  a  common  beggar.  He  is  almost  the  only  street  beggar  in  this  city. 
He  lives,  I  think,  in  some  old  hut  outside  of  the  place,  and  comes  here  begging 
each  morning,  with  his  basket  on  his  arm.  Look  at  him." 

I  looked.  The  running  and  the  vengeful  throwing  of  the  stone  had 
exhausted  him,  and  he  had  just  sunk  down  in  a  heap,  as  it  were,  on  a  seat  in 
the  square. 

The  old  question  that  James  had  asked  came  to  me  again  with  irresistible 


212  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

force.  I  crossed  the  street  to  the  square,  and  sat  down  on  the  long  bench 
beside  the  half-animated  bundle  of  rags. 

The  old  man  peered  into  my  face. 

"I  —  am  —  all  exhausted,"  he  said  ;  "  'gin  out  —  I  can't  do  as  I  used 
to  do." 

"  It's  a  fine  day,"  I  said. 

"  Yes —  ha  —  a  fine  day  for  fine  folks.  Ha  —  all  days  are  pretty  much  the 
same  to  me.  Are  you  a  stranger  here  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Seth  —  ha  —  Seth.     That  is  my  name.     What 's  yourn  ?  " 

"  Why  do  the  people  here  allow  the  boys  to  trouble  an  old  man  like  you  ? 
I  thought  people  were  civil  here,  —  that  this  was  a  Christian  city." 

"  You  did,  did  ye,  stranger?  Ha,  you  thought  that  the  people  were  civiller, 
ha?  Well,  they  be  generally,  as  a  rule,  but  not  to  old  Seth.  Well,  never  mind. 
I  shall  get  through  by  and  by.  I  shall  have  to  throw  rocks  at  'em  while  I  live, 
and  can  hobble  about,  ha.  Stranger,  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  was.  It  may  seem 
strange  to  you  that  one  thing  like  that  should  ruin  a  man's  life,  but  it  has  mine. 
I  'd  been  careless  about  living  on  the  square  for  some  time,  when  it  happened 
—  that  joke  that  crippled  me  for  life." 

He  caught  his  breath  convulsively  with  a  halting  "  Ha,"  and  then 
continued :  — 

"  It  was  a  terrible  cold  night  when  I  went  into  that  store,  and  found  that 
the  store-keeper  had  gone  out  to  shut  up  the  blinds.  I  was  all  alone,  and  there 
came  over  me  the  impulse  to  profit  by  the  chance.  Somethin'  seemed  to 
whisper  to  me :  '  Here  is  your  luck,  make  the  most  of  it.'  Stranger,  there  was 
once  a  time  when  I  would  have  no  such  temptation  if  I  'd  gone  into  an  empty 
shop  with  an  open  drawer  of  uncounted  dollars. 

"  I  saw  the  balls  of  butter  in  the  cool  corner  of  the  store.  I  seized  one. 
My  conscience  began  to  burn,  and  I  threw  water  upon  it  by  saying:  '  I  '11  pay 
for  it  at  some  other  time  !  '  Men  cool  conscience  in  that  way. 

"  The  storekeeper  came  back  with  a  queer  look  on  his  face.  He  did  not 
appear  nat'ral.  He  was  too  friendly.  He  made  me  sit  down  close  to  the  stove. 
I  could  feel  my  heart  beat  under  my  coat.  When  a  person  is  dealing  unfair 
with  you,  you  feel  it  in  the  air.  I  could  feel  in  the  air  that  something  was 
wrong. 

"  Well,  the  stove  roared ;  it  turned  red.  The  place  was  close,  and  I  was 
so  nervous  that  I  began  to  perspire.  Then  all  at  once  —  how  the  thing  struck 
me  like  a  death-shot !  —  the  butter  began  to  melt.  I  could  feel  it  trickling 
down  my  hair,  and  dropping  into  my  back.  I  thought  of  the  old  hymn  about 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN   THE   OLD   COLONIAL  KITCHEN.  215 

the  holy  oil  and  Aaron's  beard.  I  wished  that  the  butter  in  my  hat  was  like 
that.  I  hoped  still  that  the  storekeeper  did  not  suspect  me,  but  I  felt  that  he 
did.  The  butter  was  shaping  itself  to  my  head.  I  dared  not  take  off  my  hat. 
I  wondered  if  the  butter  were  soaking  through  it.  I  tried  to  move  back,  but 
there  was  no  room.  Then  I  felt  the  oil  creeping  down  the  back  of  my  head. 
It  would  soon  flow  over  my  forehead.  I  leaped  up ;  I  said :  '  I  must  go  —  I 
ain't  well  —  let  me  out  —  I  must  go.'  But  the  storekeeper  stood  before  me,  and 
made  me  sit  down  again.  Had  I  been  right  and  strong  within,  I  could  not 
have  done  it.  But  a  conscience-stung  man  will  do  anything,  —  he  is  a  coward, 
and  his  heart  is  wax. 

"  I  sat  down,  with  a  feeling  as  though  I  was  stifled.  The  butter  kept  on 
melting ;  it  ran  down  over  my  face,  and  I  wiped  it  off  with  my  mittens  and 
comforter.  I  never  before  dreamed  how  much  oil  there  was  in  a  pound  of 
butter.  Would  it  ever  cease  to  flow? 

"  Well,  the  storekeeper  let  me  go  at  last,  and  told  me  of  the  fun  that  my 
punishment  had  given  him.  Stranger,  I  deserved  the  punishment;  I  acknowl- 
edge it  was  just.  But  I  wished  that  he  had  taken  some  other  way,  and  given 
me  a  chance.  I  was  not  wholly  bad ;  I  might  not  have  been  where  I  am  now. 

"  The  next  day  all  the  people  in  the  town  were  laughing  at  me.  Stranger, 
there  is  nothing  that  kills  a  man  like  ridicule,  and  since  that  time  I  Ve  cared 
for  nothing  but  to  trip,  trip  about,  and  do  chores,  and  beg,  and  throw  stones 
at  the  boys.  Stranger,  I  sometimes  wish  that  I  was  young  again  when  I  hear 
the  robins  sing.  But  the  spring  stalk  never  blooms  twice.  Stranger,  I  was  to 
blame.  Ah,  well,  my  glass  is  almost  run;  it  can  never  be  turned  again." 

On  one  side  of  the  square,  across  the  street,  was  an  orchard-yard,  and  some 
low,  budding  peach-trees.  Into  the  boughs  of  this  yard  robins  came  chirping 
and  singing  while  the  old  man  was  speaking,  and  when  he  became  silent  the 
birds  sang  again.  The  old  man  listened  to  the  first  song  of  the  robin,  and, 
turning  to  me,  said :  — 

"  Robins?  It's  spring  again.  I  'm  glad  the  winter  is  over.  I  like  to  hear 
the  robins  when  they  first  begin  to  sing.  About  the  only  friends  I  've  got  is 
the  robins." 

"  How  is  that,  my  friend?  " 

"  Stranger  —  ha  —  you  Ve  read  about  old  Bible  times?     They  used  to  stone 
people  who  stole  in  those  days.     They  don't  do  so  now,  but  it 's  just  as  bad  — 
wrongdoers  throw  stones  at  themselves.     All  my  troubles  began  with  stealing 
a  pound  of  butter.     I   began   to    throw  stones  at   myself,  and   the  world   only 
followed  me." 

The  sun   grew  warm.     The  purple  sea  rolled   afar,   here  and  there  white 


2l6  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

with  flying  sails  and  with  the  long  breakers  that  churned  on  rocks  'and  ledges. 
A  robin  seemed  to  catch  the  inspiration  of  the  day,  and  her  voice  quivered 
with  thrilling  joy  and  flute-like  heraldings 

"  Just  hear  that  bird,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  'd  like  to  have  a  robin  sing 
over  me  after  I  am  gone.  No  one  cares  for  me,  and  I  seem  to  have  lost  inter- 
est in  everything.  Well,  I  'm  rested  now,  and  I  must  travel  on." 

He  rose  and  hobbled  away,  his  face  turned  upward  toward  the  sun.  When 
he  had  gone  a  little  distance,  he  stopped  to  hear  the  spring  robin  sing  again. 
He  seemed  to  catch  a  moment  of  happiness ;  then  his  face  fell,  and  he  went  on. 

I  inquired  in  regard  to  the  history  of  this  man  at  the  hotel. 

"  He  has  no  friends,  and  lives  all  alone,"  said  the  clerk.  "  There's  a  piece 
in  the  reading-book  about  him,  or  a  man  like  him ;  you  may  have  seen  it." 

"  Is  it  called  '  A  Melting  Story'?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes ;   I  think  that  is  the  title  of  it." 

"  A  Melting  Story  !  "  The  last  scene  of  all  was  indeed  a  melting  story,  and 
one  that  left  not  only  tears  in  my  eyes,  but  a  lesson  in  my  experience ! 

Ten  years  had  passed,  and  I  was  again  in  the  same  port  city,  and  visited 
the  same  neighborhood.  The  memory  of  my  old  class  came  back  to  me,  and 
with  it  the  thought  of  "  Trip-Trip-to-Dee-Dee."  I  made  inquiry  of  a  friend 
about  the  old  man. 

"  His  journey  is  over  at  last,"  was  the  answer.  "  He  was  very  old  when  he 
died,  —  over  an  hundred,  I  think.  He  lived  alone,  and  I  have  heard  that  he 
died  alone.  He  used  to  think  the  robins  came  to  sing  to  him. 

"  The  joke  of  the  pound  of  butter  ruined  him,  and  followed  him  to  the  end 
of  his  life. 

"Wherever  he  used  to  go,  the  air  was  sure  to  ring  with  the  shout:  'Who 
stole  the  butter?  ' 

"  One  day  he  went  hobbling  out  of  town.  '  I  shall  never  come  back  again,' 
he  said.  '  They  have  stoned  me  to  death  with  their  cries.  Old  Seth  is  going- 
where  he  will  have  peace,  and  the  robins  will  sing  over  him,  when  the  spring 
comes  to  the  harbor.  Old  Seth  is  now  going  for  good  to  the  robins.' 

"  The  prophecy  was  true.  Whe*n  we  go  out  to  ride  I  will  show  you  where 
he  used  to  live." 

That  afternoon  we  rode  in  sight  of  the  sea.  My  friend  turned  into  a  quiet 
way  at  last.  We  came  to  a  hut,  and  near  it  was  a  heap  of  stones,  and  over  the 
door  was  a  robin's  nest. 

"  They  say  he  used  to  live  there.  I  do  not  know.  But  for  a  generation  he 
was  a  wellnigh  homeless  wanderer  in  these  roads  and  streets.  The  inhumanity 
shown  to  that  poor  old  witless  man  is  something  more  than  a  melting  story. 


FOLK-LORE    TALES  IN  THE   OLD   COLONIAL   KITCHEN.  21J 

A  single  evil  report  may  follow  a  man  to  the  death  of  his  self-respect,  and 
much  that  is  good  in  his  heart  and  soul.  I  pity  the  lips  that  taunt  a  man 
like  that." 

I  thought  of  the  old  reading-class  and  of  James,  and  I  read  in  James's 
question  the  lesson  that  it  had  intended  to  imply.  My  dear  old  pupil  was 
right,  at  least,  in  the  charity  of  his  thought,  and  I  shall  always  love  his  memory 
in  association  with  the  curious  history  of  "  Trip-Trip-to-Dee-Dee." 


CHAPTER   X. 


THE    FOLK-SONG    FESTIVAL. 


MONG  the  most  delightful  of  all  the  entertainments 
given   under  the    auspices  of   the  World's  Congress 
Auxiliary  in  the  Art  Palace,  Chicago,  was  the  festival 
of  the  home  songs  of  all  nations.      It  was  held  in 
the   halls   of  Washington   and  Columbus,  the   same 
singers  passing  from  the   one  hall  to  the  other,  so 
that  two  audiences  might  enjoy  the  re- 
view of  the   world's   popular  songs    on 
the  same  evening. 

O 

The  singers,  many  of  whom  came 
from  the  nations  represented  on  the 
Midway  Plaisance,  were  dressed  in  the 
costumes  of  their  own  country,  and  were 
accompanied  by  their  national  instru- 
ments. The  most  beautiful  of  all  folk- 
songs were  those  of  Wales ;  among  the 
most  unique,  those  of  India. 

The  representation  of  old  New  Eng- 
land tunes  was  interesting.  The  con- 
cert closed  late  at  night,  the  last  num- 
ber being  "  The  Battle  Cry  of  Freedom," 
sung  by  Dr.  Root,  the  composer  of  the  song. 

Our  trio  listened  to  this  wonderful  festival  with  delight. 


MR.    FIELD. 


THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL. 


219 


"  Every  town  ought  to  have  a  choral  society  to  sing  these  songs," 
said  Mr.  Marlowe  ;  "  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  songs  of  the  heart 
Even  the  songs  of  the  nations  that  we  call  heathen  have  human 
sympathy  in  them.  The  human  heart  is  one." 


HUNGARIAN   DANCERS. 


Mr.  Marlowe  saved   his  programme  for  use  in  making   up  some 
limited  entertainment  of  the  kind  for  home  use. 

"  I  will  tell  the  story  of  '  Hannah,  Who  Sang  Countre,' "  he  said, 


220  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"when  the  Club  meets  again,  and   I  will  sing  some  of  the  old  New 
England  tunes  while  telling  the  story." 

Mr.  Marlowe  carried  into  effect  the  thought.     The  story  was  as 
follows :  — 

HANNAH,   WHO    SANG   COUNTRE. 

A    THANKSGIVING    STORY. 

I  CAN  see  her  now  in  my  mind's  eye,  as  she  used  to  sit  alone  on  the  church 
steps,  her  white  face  beaming  with  benevolence  beneath  her  gray  poke  bonnet. 
The  great  bell  hung  over  the  steps,  high  in  air.  It  was  silent  then,  or  rung  only 
by  the  sharp  gusts  of  winds.  Before  her  was  the  old  Puritan  graveyard,  in 
which  slept  all  to  whom  she  could  claim  kin.  Hannah  Semple  was  a  poor,  lone 
woman.  Her  home  was  among  the  lilac  bushes  and  apple-trees,  but  all  that 
was  mortal  of  those  dear  to  her  was  here  under  the  gray  stones.  She  loved  to 
visit  them  at  early  evenings.  Her  Sundays  were  always  spent  with  them. 
Hannah  Semple's  heart  had  been  true  to  her  own  family  while  they  were 
living;  it  was  true  still,  and  would  always  be  the  same. 

I  can,  in  memory,  hear  her  sing,  and  her  cracked  voice  was  tender  and 
pitiful.  Her  favorite  hymn  began  with  a  curious  simile  that  excited  my  curi- 
osity before  I  knew  its  history,  and  my  imagination,  afterwards : 

"  As  on  some  lonely  building's  top 

The  sparrow  tells  her  moan, 
Far  from  the  tents  of  joy  and  hope, 
I  sit  and  grieve  alone." 

The  tune  was  "  Hallowell,"  a  great  favorite  in  the  olden  time.  It  was  one 
of  those  tunes  in  which,  to  my  boyish  ears,  the  singers  of  the  different  parts 
chased  each  other  about  in  a  most  harmonious  and  wonderful  way,  and  finally 
came  out  together  at  the  end.  The  country  choirs  who  could  perform  such 
tunes  to  the  accompaniment  of  bass  viols,  were  thought  by  the  country  people 
to  have  made  great  progress  in  musical  art.  It  was  in  the  days  of  these 
majestic  performances  in  the  choir-loft  of  the  progressive  Puritan  church,  that 
Hannah  Semple  used  to  sing  countre. 

The  church  was  closed  now,  and  had  been  closed  for  two  years :  as  silent 
as  the  graveyard  in  which  the  hardy  Puritans  slept  under  the  mosses  and  zigzag 
stones.  There  was  a  progressive  spirit  in  the  old  Swansea  neighborhood, 
which  was  one  of  the  successive  communities  that  ran  from  Plymouth  to  the 


THE   FOLK-SONG   FESTIVAL.  221 

old  towns  founded  by  Roger  Williams  and  the  Quaker-Baptists  on  the  Narra- 
gansett  Bay.  This  was  shown  by  the  introduction  of  the  bass  viol  into  the 
choir,  which  soon  found  an  evolution  in  two  bass  viols  ;  then  in  fugued  tunes 
by  Billings  and  Holden  and  Maxim ;  then  more  bass  viols,  which  were  played 
on  Thanksgiving  Day. 

The  greatest  choral  performance  in  those  days,  when  Hannah  sang  conntre, 
was  a  tune  called  "  Majesty,"  by  Billings.  William  Billings  was  the  musical 
wonder  of  these  eventful  times, —  a  rural  Handel  of  the  many  neighborhoods 
of  Puritan  churches.  He  did  not  know  much  about  counterpoint, —  he  followed 
only  natural  inspiration ;  but  his  music  is  still  to  be  found  in  collections.  This 
tune,  "  Majesty,"  was  thought  to  be  his  masterpiece,  and  was  sung  on  all  great 
occasions.  The  words  were  as  stirring  as  the  music :  - 

"  The  Lord  descended  from  above, 

And  bowed  the  heavens  most  high, 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

"  On  cherub  and  on  cherubim 

Full  royally  he  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 
Came  flying  all  abroad." 

Vigorous  indeed  was  the  rendering  of  this  tune  on  Independence  days,  after 
the  reading  of  the  immortal  Declaration,  and  before  the  Oration ;  and  as 
inspiring  also  on  Thanksgiving  mornings,  before  the  long  sermon.  It  required 
much  practice  on  the  part  of  the  orchestra,  and  hard  were  the  bitings  of  the 
tuning  fork,  and  severe  were  the  rehearsals,  before  it  could  be  acceptably 
performed.  The  soprano  was  a  rural  Patti,  and  as  for  the  basso  prof  undo, 
there  is  no  present  comparison. 

To  sing  co nnt re  was  held  to  be  a  great  accomplishment  in  the  days  of  the 
music  of  Billings,  Maxim,  and  Holden.  By  conntre  we  do  not  mean  the  counter 
alto  of  the  present  time,  but  a  kind  of  alto  or  contralto.  It  was  often  called 
the  "  natural  alto,"  for  in  these  days  of  rural  Handels,  each  church  developed 
one  or  more  female  singers  that  were  thought  to  have  the  gift  of  singing  alto 
by  direct  inspiration. 

In  the  prosperous  days  of  the  old  Swansea  church,  when  the  descendants 
of  heroic  Samson  Mason,  of  Cromwell's  army,  and  of  like  heroes,  sent  out 
missionary  colonies  to  Nova  Scotia  and  elsewhere,  Hannah  Semple  sang 
conntre  in  the  ancient  meeting-house,  and  her  voice  was  the  pride  of  the  many 
neighborhoods.  People  used  to  visit  the  church  from  the  distant  villages  in 


222  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 

ark-like  carryalls,  and  it  was  often  said  that  many  of  them  came  less  to  hear 
the  long  sermon,  in  regard  to  the  domestic  affairs  of  the  Jews  in  Jerusalem, 
than  to  hear  musical  Hannah,  who  sang  countre. 

In  the  days  of  her  musical  triumphs  Hannah  never  changed  her  humble 
name  into  Hannahetti.  Her  guileless  soul  never  entertained  any  vanity  like 
that,  and  yet  local  appreciation  had  given  her  a  name  as  long  as  that  of  any 
modern  singer.  She  was  never  spoken  of  as  simply  Hannah,  but  always  as 
"  Hannah,  who  sang  countre"  a  name  that  would  be  sufficiently  picturesque 
for  a  modern  concert  bill. 

I  first  saw  the  old  woman  on  a  Sunday  morning,  as  I  was  riding  with  my 
father  to  another  church.  It  was  in  early  May. 

As  we  came  to  a  low,  red  cottage,  a  gate  in  front  slowly  opened,  and  the 
tall,  thin  form  of  a  woman  appeared,  in  a  gray  dress,  Rob-Roy  shawl,  and  high 
poke  bonnet,  followed  by  a  Maltese  cat.  There  was  something  so  pleasant  in 
the  expression  of  her  face,  so  patient  and  kindly,  that  I  followed  her  move- 
ments with  sympathetic  curiosity. 

"  Who  is  that,  Father?  "  I  asked,  in  an  undertone. 

"  That  is  '  Hannah,  who  sang  countre!  She  holds  a  meeting  alone  every 
Sunday  morning,  on  the  old  church  steps,  and  declares  that  the  church- 
members  will  come  together  again,  and  there  will  be  a  great  thanksgiving,  if 
she  remains  faithful.  Her  mind  is  slightly  unbalanced,  and  she  thinks  she 
is  a  prophetess." 

My  father  bowed  to  her,  and  her  face  lightened  up  as  she  said,— 

"  A  beautiful  morning.  T  is  a  morning  of  the  trees  of  the  Lord,  and  I  am 
one  of  the  branches.  Do  you  believe  in  the  Great  Thanksgiving?"  Her  face 
seemed  full  of  hope. 

"  No,  Hannah,  no,"  said  my  father,  truthfully. 

"  No?  Well,  I  am  sorry  you  don't  believe  it.  But  I  must  be  faithful.  It 
is  sure  to  come,  for  it  has  been  revealed  to  me.  I  have  been  faithful  to  the 
dead,—  and  now  I  must  be  faithful  to  the  living.  This  is  all  I  have  to  live  for. 
It  will  come !  The  people  of  the  Lord  in  these  plantations  will  gather  again. 
The  doors  will  open,  and  there  will  be  great  thanksgiving.  I  shall  be  there,— 
right  before  the  pulpit,  right  by  the  deacon's  seat.  It  has  been  revealed  to 
me.  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  be  there.  That  is  a  veiled  mystery ;  there  is  a 
shadow  over  it ;  I  cannot  see  how  it  will  be,  but  I  shall  be  there." 

"Where  are  you  going  this  morning?     Will  you  ride?  "  asked  my  father. 

"  I  'm  going  to  meetin'." 

"  Who  is  to  preach?  " 

"  I." 


THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL.  22$ 

"  Who  attends  the  meeting?" 

«   T   >' 

"Who  sings?" 

"  I." 

"  Do  you  sing  countre?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  looked  down  on  the  violets,  and  when  at  last 
she  lifted  her  face,  it  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  Bless  you,  no  !  There  is  no  one  now  to  sing  countre.  It  takes  two  voices 
to  sing  countre.  They  will  sing  again  after  the  Great  Thanksgiving,  but  now  I 
am  left  to  sing  alone.  I  have  to  sing  the  upper  part  now.  My  voice  is  not 
so  good  as  it  used  to  be." 

She  broke  some  purple  lilacs  from  the  sunny  bushes  by  the  roadside,  and 
gave  them  to  me.  I  thanked  her,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  boyish  sympathy, 
said, — 

"  I  wish  I  had  something  to  give  you." 

"  You  are  a  good  boy  to  say  so,  but  I  don't  expect  anything  from  any  one 
now.  My  folks  are  all  housed  in  the  graveyard,  and  the  sun  is  shinin'  upon 
them,  and  the  violets  bloom  in  there.  I  shall  be  with  them  soon.  I  wish  you 
would  come  to  meetin'  with  me  some  Sunday  morning.  I  '11  sing  to  ye,  and 
tell  of  my  vision,  and  the  Great  Thanksgiving.  It  is  lonesome  to  preach  all  to 
one's  self,  and  the  dead." 

"  Don't  any  one  ever  come  to  hear  you?  "  asked  I. 

"  Yes,  the  Lord  comes  regularly.  They  are  there.  Those  I  love  are  always 
there,  down  under  the  moss.  Do  they  listen?  I  think  they  do.  The  sun 
comes  down  on  the  steps,  and  the  winds  come  from  the  meadows,  and  the 
birds  come.  The  world  is  full  of  beautiful  things  that  come  to  hear  me  preach 
to  myself.  Child,  if  you  will  come  to  hear  me  next  Sunday  mornin',  I  will 
sing  you  one  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  that  you  ever  heard,  and  will  tell  you 
about  the  Great  Thanksgiving,  just  as  I  said.  Now  you  will  come  —  do." 

The  next  Sabbath  was  not  a  meeting  day  with  the  family.  The  horses  had 
been  worked  so  hard  in  ploughing  that  Father  decided  that  they  must  be 
allowed  to  rest.  At  the  breakfast-table  an  allusion  was  made  to  old  Hannah, 
and  I  startled  the  family  with  the  question, — 

"  May  I  go  over  there  to-day,  and  see  Hannah,  and  get  some  lilacs?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  my  mother,  whose  heart  was  all  sympathy.  "  You  would  be 
company  for  her.  I  never  knew  a  woman  who  was  so  self-forgetful,  or  did  so 
much  for  poor  people  and  sick  people,  as  she  has  done.  She  is  not  a  prophet- 
ess, but  I  do  think  if  the  angels  of  heaven  have  a  message  for  any  one,  it  must 
be  for  her.  Poor  old  Hannah  !  " 


226  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IJV   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  Perhaps  she  will  tell  you  about  her  beau,  Peter  Rugg,  who  thought  that  a 
sheep  was  a  catamount,"  said  one  of  the  work-people,  dryly. 

As  I  approached  the  silent  meeting-house,  I  saw,  through  the  opening  in 
the  locust-trees,  Hannah,  sitting  on  its  sunny  steps.  She  met  me  with  a  smile, 
exclaiming,  "Come  in;  meetin'  hasn't  begun.  I'm  glad  you've  come.  We 
will  have  the  service,  then  I  will  prophesy  as  the  Lord  commands,  and  after 
that  you  shall  go  home  with  me  for  some  cake  to  eat.  You  will  live  to  see 
the  Great  Thanksgiving.  It  has  been  revealed  to  me." 

She  held  a  hymn  book  in  her  hand,  and  an  old-time  parallelogram  of  tunes, 
with  slant  sides,  lay  beside  her.  She  took  up  the  music  book,  opened  it,  and 
held  it  in  one  hand,  and  the  hymn  book  in  the  other. 

"  This  tune  that  I  am  goin'  to  sing  has  a  mighty  curious  history,"  said  she. 
"  It  was  written  by  Abraham  Maxim,  or  Granville  Maxim.  He  lived  in  Maine,, 
and  he  named  his  tunes  for  the  towns  in  Maine  :  '  Portland,'  '  Hallowell,' '  Bath,' 
and  the  like. 

"  He  was  disappointed  in  love,  Maxim  was.  So  was  I.  I  '11  tell  you  about 
it  when  I  get  home,  after  meetin'.  One  day  he  went  out  into  the  woods  to  hang 
himself,  carryin'  with  him  a  rope.  He  sat  down  in  a  lonely  place,  near  a  shed, 
to  meditate  before  he  tied  the  rope  to  a  tree.  Well,  as  Providence  would  have 
it,  a  sparrer,  whose  nest  had  been  disturbed,  uttered  its  little  plaintive  cry  of 
fear,  because  of  its  young.  It  touched  his  heart,  and  he  wrote  down  on  a 
piece  of  birch-bark  the  hymn  I  'm  goin'  to  sing.  Then  he  wrote  to  the  hymn 
a  tune  in  deep  minor,  endin'  with  a  very  solemn  chord.  It's  very  comfortin' 
to  me." 

She  lifted  up  the  music  book,  and  sang  the  most  melancholy  piece  of  music 
to  which  I  ever  listened,  ending  with  the  very  solemn  chord :  — 

"  As  on  some  lone/y  building's  top 
The  sparrow  makes  her  moan, 
Far  from  the  tents  of  joy  and  hope 
I  sit  and  grieve  alone." 

Hannah  then  made  a  prayer  in  glowing  Hebrew  figures,  a  kind  of  rhapsody 
of  Hebrew  poetry.  She  sang  another  hymn  tune  of  Maxim's,  then  laid  down 
her  books  and  stood  up. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  this  is  my  text;  it  was  written  for  you  thousands  of 
years  ago,  —  'And  Reuben  returned  unto  the  pit;  and  behold  Joseph  was  not 
in  the  pit.'  "  Her  thought  was  that  a  lost  opportunity  for  doing  good,  of  being 
loving,  kind,  and  merciful,  could  seldom  be  recalled.  Her  words  were  homely 
and  quaint,  but  her  figures  and  ideas  were  poetic.  She  preached  charity  to  all 
men.  I  recall  only  one  whole  sentence.  It  was:  "  Never  lose  an  opportunity 


THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL.  227 

of  doing  good;  if  you  do,  it  will  injure  _y0w.  We  are  all  passin'  away;  he  that 
hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear." 

When  she  had  finished  her  discourse,  she  said,  "  Now,  I  am  goin'  to 
prophesy." 

She  stood  in  silence  at  first,  looking  up  to  the  sky;  then  lifting  her  hand, 
she  repeated  the  first  six  verses  of  the  Fifty-first  chapter  of  the  poetry  of 
Isaiah,  in  a  tone  quite  unlike  her  usual  voice. 

"  It  will  come,"  she  said,  —  "  that  Great  Thanksgiving  will  come  in  these 
towns  that  were  founded  by  the  old  prophets.  You  will  be  there;  that  is 
revealed  to  me.  I  shall  be  there.  But  how?  That  is  not  clear.  When  I  try  to 
see  myself  there,  there  comes  a  cloud;  the  vision  shuts  down.  Men  have  shut 
the  doors  of  the  old  church,  but  the  doors  of  the  heavens  are  .not  closed. 
The  Great  Thanksgiving  that  I  see  will  come,  if  I  only  prove  faithful.  It  will 
come!  It  will  come!  The  people  will  gather,  as  in  days  of  old.  There  will 
be  preachin'  in  the  old  pulpit,  and  singin',  though  I  may  not  be  here  to  sing 
countre.  I  can  see  the  people  comin'  through  the  graveyard,  under  the  trees, 
but  I  am  not  there.  Oh,  where  am  I  ?  Where  am  I  ?  I  don't  see  myself 
anywhere ;  yet  the  Voice  tells  me  I  shall  be  there." 

She  sank  down,  a  shadow  on  her  serene  face. 

She  arose  again,  and  sang  a  strange  hymn.  Each  stanza  ended  with  the 
words :  "  With  glory  in  our  souls."  It  was  a  long  hymn,  with  a  plaintive  air. 

"  Come,  child,"  said  she,  when  the  song  ended,  "  meetin'  is  over  now.  Let 
us  go." 

She  led  me  to  the  red  cottage  among  the  lilac-trees.  How  clean  and  neat 
it  was!  Then,  in  her  kindly  way,  she  brought  me  cake  and  milk,  and  drove 
out  of  the  house  a  solitary  fly,  an  early  intruder. 

"  You  live  alone?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  child ;  they  all  live  with  me ;  they  come  to  visit  me.  The 
Lord  lives  with  me,  when  I  don't  murmur  nor  complain,  and  He  never  turns 
against  me. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  about  myself  ?  Well,  I  was  very  happy  as  a  child,  roamin' 
among  the  berry  pastures,  goin'  to  the  deestrict  school,  and  helpin'  Mother 
about  the  house.  Mother  was  a  great-hearted,  good  woman,  and  Father  was  an 
honest,  hard-working  man.  I  never  thought  that  I  should  be  a  public  singer,, 
and  sit  in  the  gallery,  and  sing  countre  in  the  '  Easter  Anthem.'  I  never 
thought  I  should  sing  before  the  great  Daniel  Webster,  on  Independence  Day. 

"  It  all  came  about  in  this  way.  Old  Schoolmaster  Mason  opened  a  singin' 
school  in  the  vestry  of  the  church,  and  asked  me  to  attend.  I  always  loved 
music,  and  I  did  not  go  to  the  school  but  a  little  while,  before  I  found  that  I 


228  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

could  sing  countre.  Even  in  a  new  piece  that  I  had  never  seen,  if  I  only  had 
the  words  before  me,  I  could  make  up  a  countre  to  the  singing  of  the  air. 

"  I  learned  to  sing  low  tones  that  the  people  thought  were  wonderful.  It 
used  sometimes  to  trouble  me  because  they  seemed  to  think  more  about  how 
I  sang,  than  what  I  sang. 

"  There  was  a  young  man  in  the  neighborhood,  at  the  time,  named  Peter 
Rugg.  He  is  dead  now.  He  used  to  listen  to  the  countre  at  the  singin'  school 
as  though  he  was  spellbound.  One  night,  after  I  had  been  singin',  he  came  to 
me,  and  asked  leave  to  see  me  home.  He  was  fine-looking,  with  curly  hair 
and  a  high  forehead,  and  he  tried  to  sing  tenor.  I  liked  him,  and,  after  a  time, 
he  used  to  visit  me  often,  and  one  night  he  said,  — 

" '  Hannah,  if  I  ever  should  save  money  enough  to  marry  anybody,  it  would 
be  you  ;  you  do  sing  countre  so  solemn.' 

"  I  felt  that  he  paid  to  me  the  greatest  compliment  that  could  be  paid  to  a 
woman,  and  says  I,  says  I,  — 

"  '  Peter,  if  I  were  ever  to  leave  my  home,  I  should  want  to  jine  my  lot  with 
yourn,  you  do  sing  so  high.' 

"  I  was  kind  of  modest,  and  I  did  n't  wish  to  say  any  more  than  he  did,  but 
I  really  did  love  him,  and  I  would  have  been  glad  to  have  married  him. 

"  Well,  one  winter,  all  the  country  round  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  great 
fright,  by  a  report  that  some  woodchoppers  had  seen  a  catamount  in  the  woods. 
Soon  after  this,  sheep  and  pigs  began  to  disappear,  and  the  loss  was  laid  to 
the  catamount.  There  used  to  be  catamounts  in  New  England,  and  in  the 
great  woods,  along  the  Pocassett  coast,  one  would  be  seen  occasionally. 

"  The  excitement  grew.  A  great  many  people  began  to  think  that  they 
had  seen  the  catamount,  though  whether  there  was  one,  at  that  time,  in  Massa- 
chusetts, no  one  can  say. 

"  One  day,  when  the  people  were  all  excited  about  the  catamount,  Peter 
Rugg  took  tea  at  our  house,  and  went  with  me  in  the  evenin'  to  the  singin' 
school.  I  sang  my  best  that  night,  and  Peter  was  so  pleased  that  he  said  to 
me:  '  Hannah,  whatever  may  happen,  I  will  always  be  true  to  you.'  I  was 
very  happy,  and  we  left  the  vestry  to  walk  home. 

"  We  took  a  roundabout  way,  but  had  not  gane  far,  when  we  heard  a 
patterin'  of  feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"  '  Hark,  it 's  the  catamount !  '  Peter  cried. 

"  '  I  '11  cling  to  you  forever,'  said  I.  'We  will  die  true.  If  he  devours  you, 
he  shall  devour  me.' 

"  We  hurried  on,  trembling  in  every  limb.  The  patter  of  the  feet  continued 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 


THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL.  2 29 

" '  Let  go  my  arm,'  he  said,  '  and  I  '11  see  what  it  is.' 

"  I  released  his  arm,  when,  could  you  believe  it?  he  ran  off,  sayin',  — '  I  'II 
get  a  sun,'  and  he  flew  over  the  hill.  I  never  saw  him  again  for  a  year.  I 

o  o  <->  * 

stood  dumb  in  the  road.  In  my  indignation  all  fear  left  me.  A  moment  later 
I  heard  a  sheep  '  ba-a'  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"  Nobody  can  tell  what  a  heavy  heart  I  carried  home  that  night.  All 
respect  for  the  man  I  thought  I  loved  was  gone.  I  cried  myself  to  sleep.  For 
months  I  suffered  more  than  I  can  ever  tell,  but  I  never  told  the  story  while 
Peter  lived.  I  forgave  him  when  death  touched  him.  We  are  all  poor  and 
weak.  We  must  be  merciful  in  our  thoughts. 

"  Well,  Father  was  stricken  with  the  palsy,  and  Mother,  she  began  to  lose  her 
mind,  and  thought  she  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin,  or  that  she  should 
do  some  violence  to  herself,  and  she  wanted  to  be  watched  all  the  time.  She 
did  n't  sleep  much  for  years,  and,  amid  all  these  troubles,  my  only  sister  died. 
I  tried  to  take  care  of  them  all.  I  did  my  best.  How  I  used  to  work  in  those 
days !  There  were  weeks  at  a  time  when  I  could  not  take  off  my  dress  at 
night. 

"  Well,  the  old  folks  died;  then  my  poor  sister  passed  away:  so  life  goes. 
One  goes,  then  more,  and  the  number  grows.  I  have  no  blood  kin  now.  The 
lot  in  the  graveyard  is  full,  but  sometimes  they  visit  me  in  spirit.  It  makes  me 
happy  to  think  that  I  did  all  I  could  for  them,  when  they  were  living.  I  know 
where  they  are ;  they  know  where  I  am.  There  is  no  real  partin'  among 
hearts  that  are  true  to  each  other. 

"  I  had  one  great  comfort  in  all  my  hard  lot.  It  was  music.  I  did  love  to 
sing.  My  voice  made  me  a  little  vain  at  first,  but  I  meant  to  use  it  only  for 
good,  and  never  for  myself.  I  came  to  hold  it  as  a  trust.  I  could  see  how  it 
helped  and  comforted  others,  and  that  made  me  happy.  I  used  to  sing, 
'  Peace,  troubled  soul,'  at  funerals,  and,  '  Come,  ye  disconsolate,'  and,  '  Come 
unto  me  when  shadows  darkly  gather.'  I  had  no  father,  mother,  sister,  brother, 
husband,  or  child ;  but  I  was  happy  in  the  choir.  That  fellowship  was  every- 
thing to  me. 

"Then  came  the  great  church  quarrel.  How  can  such  things  be!  A  part 
of  the  members  became  Six-Principle  Baptists,  and  a  part  Christian  Baptists, 
and  each  claimed  the  church.  Neither  party  would  yield.  So  the  old  church 
was  closed.  The  doors  were  nailed  up,  and  the  rope  taken  off  the  bell. 

"  I  felt  that  I  was  utterly  alone  when  the  bell  ceased  to  ring,"  she  said. 
"  People  sent  for  me  to  take  care  of  their  sick,  to  comfort  the  dying,  and  to  lay 
out  the  dead,  and  sing  at  funerals.  That  was  all  the  life  I  had.  Then  my 
voice  began  to  break,  and  my  hair  to  turn  gray.  It  is  white,  now,  —  see. 


230  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  One  morning  I  came  home  early,  after  watching  all  night  with  poor 
Widow  Green,  who  was  sick  so  long.  I  laid  down  on  the  lounge,  with  my 
dress  on,  and  fell  asleep.  It  was  the  day  after  it  was  resolved  to  close  the 
church.  Well,  there  came  to  me  a  vision.  I  seemed  to  be  sittin'  alone  on  the 
church  steps,  when  there  stood  before  me  a  noble-lookin'  man,  in  a  silvery 
haze,  and  said :  '  I  am  Elder  John  Myles.  I  was  the  founder  of  these  planta- 
tions. I  love  this  people,  and  the  old  church,  which  I  founded.  You  are 
•God's  child.  Be  true  to  His  cause.  Go  to  the  old  church  every  Sunday,  and 
hold  a  meetin'  on  the  steps.  If  you  remain  true,  the  people  will  be  gathered 
here  again,  and  there  will  be  a  Great  Thanksgiving,  and  you  will  be  there  in 
body  or  in  soul.'  I  woke.  It  was  gone,  —  the  beautiful  face  in  the  silver  cloud. 
But  the  words  were  printed  on  my  mind.  They  are,  there,  —  always  there. 

"  People  call  me  crazy  Hannah,  but  they  all  send  for  me  when  they  are  in 
trouble.  Their  harvests  come  and  go,  but  the  bell  does  not  ring,  nor  the  doors 
open.  But  I  am  true  to  the  vision.  The  Great  Thanksgiving  will  come,  and  I 
shall  be  there." 

She  then  sang  the  song  that  she  had  promised.  The  words  and  music  were 
really  beautiful.  I  recall  the  first  lines :  — 

"  How  sweet  to  reflect  on  the  joys  that  await  me 
In  yon  blissful  region,  the  haven  of  rest." 

One  of  the  stanzas  began  :  — 

"  Then  hail,  blessed  state  !  hail,  ye  songsters  of  glory  ! 
Ye  harpers  of  bliss,  soon  I  '11  meet  you  above." 

The  beatific  look  that  I  had  seen  in  her  face,  on  the  church  steps,  came 
back  to  her.  It  was  the  most  lovely  expression  I  ever  saw. 

The  music  of  the  school  of  Billings,  Holden,  and  Maxim,  and  the  hymns 
and  ballads  to  which  it  was  written,  were  no  weak  compositions.  There  were 
people  in  those  days  who  delighted  to  sing  — 

"If  you  want  to  see  the  devil  run, 
Shoot  him  with  the  Gospel  gun," 

to  a  dance  rhythm,  but  the  primitive,  original  psalmody  of  the  old  Orthodox 
churches  was,  as  a  rule,  as  solid  as  it  was  solemn.  "  While  shepherds  watched 
their  flocks  by  night"  had  something  of  modern  lightness  and  sprightliness, 
which  may  account  for  its  popularity  to-day,  as  a  number  in  the  programme 
of  old  folks'  concerts ;  but  Maxim's  "  Turner "  and  "  Bath,"  and  Holden's 
"Coronation"  and  "No  war  nor  battle  sound,"  and  Billings'  "Boston,"  and 
many  tunes,  all  of  which  formed  a  part  of  the  musical  experience  of  the  best 


THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL.  231 

New  England  homes,  some  fifty  years  ago,  were  serious  work,  of  the  school  of 
Tausur  and  of  Handel. 

The  great  patriotic  song  of  those  times  was  entitled  "  Ode  on  Science." 
This  was  the  chef-d  'ceuvre of  Independence  days  and  Thanksgivings,  and  Hannah 
had  once  sung  countre  in  the  performance  of  it  before  Daniel  Webster. 

Two  years  after  my  interview  with  Hannah  she  responded  to  the  Governor's 
Proclamation,  and,  faithful  to  the  old  traditions,  resolved  to  celebrate  the 
approaching  Thanksgiving  on  the  church  steps.  On  the  morning  of  that  day 
she  took  her  music  book,  which  contained  the  famous  "  Ode  on  Science,"  put 
her  spectacles  into  her  ample  pocket,  and,  followed  by  her  cat,  went  to  the 
steps  of  the  old  meeting-house.  It  was  a  mild  Indian  summer  day,  of  melting 
frosts,  dropping  nuts,  and  lingering  splendors.  The  woods  were  crimson,  with 
an  odor  of  decay  in  the  leaves,  and  the  orchards  red,  with  a  cidery  scent.  The 
call  of  the  lively  bluejay  was  heard  here  and  there,  and  the  whir  of  the  par- 
tridge wings  on  the  margin  of  the  woods.  The  farmers  were  busy  husking  their 
stacks  of  corn,  and  the  cellar  doors  were  heaped  with  squashes  and  pumpkins 
of  enormous  size,  taking  a  last  mellowing  in  the  sun. 

Just  as  Hannah  arose  on  the  church  steps  to  give  thanks  for  all  these 
blessings  of  plenty,  Deacon  Goodwin  approached  in  his  cart,  that  was  loaded 
with  corn  and  pumpkins.  He  took  the  Christian  view,  as  the  word  was  pro- 
nounced, in  the  great  theological  discussion.  His  heart  was  touched  at  the 
sight  of  the  white  hair  of  old  Hannah,  and  he  stopped  to  hear  her  sing. 

It  was  a  striking  picture  that  she  presented,  on  that  bright  morning,  in  her 
straight  gown,  poke  bonnet,  Rob  Roy  shawl,  and  white  hair,  which  filled  the 
dark  cavern  over  her  forehead.  She  stood  with  her  hymn  book  in  one  hand, 
and  beating  time  with  her  other  hand,  she  began :  — 

"  The  morning  sun  shines  from  the  east, 
And  spreads  his  glories  in  the  west. 
All  nations  with  his  beams  are  blest." 

Her  voice  was  high.     Her  free  hand  waved  vigorously  to  tell  how  — 

"  Freedom  her  attendant  waits 
To  bless  the  portals  of  her  gates, 
To  crown  the  young  and  rising  States 
With  laurels  of  immortal  day. 

"  The  British  yoke,  the  Gallic  chain, 
Was  urged  upon  our  necks  in  vain. 
All  haughty  tyrants  we  disdain, 
And  shout,  Long  live  America." 

The  last  word  rang  out  with  a  long  sound  of  ca  at  the  end. 


232  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

She  stopped,  removed  her  spectacles,  and  looked  down  upon  Deacon  Good- 
win, inquiringly. 

"  I  declare  it 's  too  bad,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  that  you  have  to  be  the 
Thanksgiving  for  the  hull  town.  Two  or  three  people  have  had  their  own 
heads  here  about  long  enough,  it 's  my  opinion.  If  I  could  have  my  way, 
Hannah,  we'd  not  be  ruled  as  we  are.  I'll  see  what  can  be  done.  Some- 
thin'  '11  have  to  be  done,  and  I  '11  do  it. 

"  Go  lang !  "  and  he  laid  a  long  birch  stick  on  the  back  of  the  patient  beast 
before  him,  and  left  Hannah  to  conclude  her  devotions  among  the  dead. 

An  epidemic  of  smallpox  spread  over  the  towns  between  the  coast  and 
Narragansett  Bay,  and  in  a  neighboring  town  there  was  no  one  to  go  into  the 
pest-house  and  nurse  the  sick.  Hannah  was  told  of  the  situation,  and  it 
touched  her  heart. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  have  never  had  the  smallpox,"  said  the  visitor. 
"  It  makes  no  difference.     I  have  a  promise  in  my  heart.     Pain  is  nothing 
when  it  is  over,  and  it  is  a  glorious  thing  to  bear  for  the  sake  of  others.    I  shall 
surely  live  until  the  Great  Thanksgiving.     I  will  go.     They  need  me." 

She  gave  herself,  night  and  day,  to  the  sufferers,  and  did  not  take  the 
disease.  But  she  was  very  old,  and  when  she  returned  to  her  cottage,  it  was 
with  exhausted  strength. 

To  the  church  steps  she  went  feebly,  with  each  returning  Sabbath.  Autumn 
came  with  bountiful  harvests.  The  blue  gentians  bloomed  in  the  cranberry 
meadows  and  by  the  roadside ;  the  apples,  red  and  russet,  bent  down  the  trees ; 
the  cornfields  rustled,  and  the  hunter's  moon  rose  in  the  nightfall. 

The  farmers  were  very  busy  filling  their  bursting  barns  and  cribs ;  but 
Hannah's  home  was  silent.  No  one  remembered  to  have  seen  her  enter  it. 
The  curtains  were  drawn,  the  door  closed.  The  next  Sunday  morning  she 
did  not  appear  upon  the  church  steps  as  usual,  and  some  neighbors  went  to 
the  door  of  the  little  red  house  to  inquire  if  she  were  ill.  They  rapped,  and 
waited  for  the  sound  of  feet  under  the  withered  morning-glory  vines,  but  none 
came.  The  house  seemed  tenantless.  One  of  the  farmers  at  length  pushed 
open  a  shutter,  and,  looking  into  the  room  usually  occupied  by  Hannah,  turned 
and  said :  "  She  lies  there  on  the  bed,  —  she  is  dead." 

"  The  dream  is  ended,"  said  the  other.  "  Poor  soul,  she  was  a  good  woman. 
God  has  taken  her  to  Himself." 

The  window  was  forced.  The  worn  body  was  tenderly  cared  for,  and  prepa- 
rations were  made  for  the  funeral.  Her  will  was  found.  She  had  given  her 
property  to  the  poor  of  the  town,  and  requested  that  she  might  be  buried  from 


THE  FOLK-SONG  FESTIVAL.  235 

the  church.  The  will  also  contained  this  strange  request:  "Since  I  leave  all 
I  have  to  the  town,  I  hope  the  Selectmen  will  ask  Rev.  John  Leland  to  attend 
my  funeral,  and  that  the  bell  may  be  tolled  when  my  body  is  taken  into  the 
church,  and  rung  when  it  is  borne  to  the  grave.  I  have  given  my  life,  and  all 
I  have  of  property,  to  the  people  of  this  town.  May  I  ask,  as  a  return  for 
this,  that  the  people  will,  in  kindness,  grant  my  last  request?" 

The  funeral  was  appointed  for  the  morning  of  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  a 
messenger  was  dispatched  to  Elder  John  Leland,  of  Cheshire,  the  eloquent 
evangelist,  who  was  then  in  Boston,  to  ask  him  if  he  would  conduct  the 
services.  The  tender-hearted  old  man  heard  the  story  of  Hannah's  life  with 
deep  sympathy. 

"  I  will  come,"  said  he,  "  but  not  to  mourn  for  the  dead.  She  does  not  need 
our  tears.  God  has  cleared  her  vision,  and  has  taken  her  to  Himself.  Let  us 
do  as  she  wished.  Your  town  had  glorious  names  among  its  founders,  and 
your  church  is  closed,  even  though  it  is  the  harvest  time.  I  shall  preach  not  a 
funeral,  but  a  Thanksgiving  sermon,  and  I  hope  that  every  one  who  has  been 
blessed  during  the  year  will  be  there.  When  the  year  has  made  a  good  harvest, 
and  one  has  made  a  good  life,  all  men  should  be  thankful." 

The  news  was  received  with  gladness  in  the  thrifty  community,  which  had 
so  long  lifted  the  pagan  idols  of  theology  over  the  religion  of  the  heart  and 
life.  All  the  people  of  the  rural  towns  who  could  leave  their  farms,  prepared 
to  attend  the  funeral  of  old  Hannah,  who  sung  conntre,  for  in  her  death  they 
had  recognized  her  worth.  No  event  had  awakened  so  much  interest  for  years. 

The  name  of  John  Leland  was  at  that  time  a  household  word.  '  It  lives  now 
chiefly  in  connection  with  the  almost  Ambrosian  hymn,  "  The  day  is  past  and 
gone,"  and  the  story  of  the  great  Cheshire  Cheese.  He  was  a  friend  of  Madison 
and  Jefferson ;  at  one  time  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  General  Court,  —  a 
truly  wonderful  man  in  all  relations  of  life.  He  used  to  travel  any  weather, 
praying  along  the  roads,  mounting  the  pulpit  singing;  always  democratic,  and 
a  friend  to  all  men. 

It  was  an  Indian  summer  day,  calm  and  clear.  The  sun  grew  warm ;  and 
the  heat  dropped  the  frost-crimsoned  leaves  in  showers.  Early  in  the  day 
people  began  to  gather  about  the  church.  Most  of  them  were  glad  that  the 
blind  day  of  theological  disputation  was  to  be  broken  by  the  ringing  of  the 
old  bell.  They  came  from  neighboring  towns  in  all  kinds  of  conveyances. 

The  old  sexton  came  with  a  claw  hammer,  and  drew  the  nails  out  of  the 
door,  and  dusted  the  pews,  and  aired  the  musty  aisles,  and  tied  a  bell  rope 
again  to  the  bell.  The  church  soon  filled  with  people ;  afterward,  the  steps, 
and  then  the  graveyard.  The  gathering  was  so  great  that  it  was  difficult  to 
keep  a  vacant  place  for  poor  old  Hannah's  body. 


236  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Toll !  The  bell  smote  reproachfully  on  the  glimmering  air.  Toll !  The 
pine  coffin  was  coming  with  fringed  gentians  upon  it.  Toll !  Every  heart 
there  felt  a  moral  shrinkage,  as  the  coffin  broke  its  way  through  the  people. 

They  set  it  down  at  last  under  the  high  pulpit,  near  the  deacon's  seat. 
But  the  crowd  out  of  doors  was  larger  than  that  in  the  house,  and  all  were 
eager  to  hear  what  Elder  Leland  would  have  to  say. 

"  Let  us  hold  the  services  outside,"  said  the  venerable  evangelist.  "  Take 
the  body  out  into  the  graveyard,  and  set  it  down  in  the  middle  of  the  graves 
of  those  to  whom  she  was  always  so  faithful,  and  I  will  preach  where  she  used 
to  preach  to  the  birds  and  to  the  dead,  from  the  meeting-house  steps." 

They  bore  out  the  body,  and  set  it  down  under  the  great  cool  trees,  where 
the  crisp  leaves  were  dropping  upon  the  graves.  They  opened  the  lid  on  the 
calm,  sweet  face,  where  the  people  on  the  high  ground  could  see  it,  and  the 
tears  of  those  in  whose  homes  she  had  been  a  blessing  to  the  sick  and  a 
comfort  to  the  dying,  fell  like  rain.  Tender  and  eloquent  were  the  words 
spoken  by  the  white-haired  Elder,  over  that  still,  dead,  untroubled  face. 

The  old  trustees  of  the  church  were  stirred  as  they  had  never  been  before. 
Soon  after  the  close  of  the  sermon,  one  of  them  mounted  the  steps,  with  a  word 
to  say  to  the  people. 

"  She  has  opened  these  doors  with  her  dead  hand,"  he  said.  "  May  they 
never  be  closed  again  by  the  living.  The  trustees  have  just  had  a  meeting, 
and  have  agreed  once  more  to  open  the  house.  This  is  a  fitting  ending  to  this 
day  of  mourning,  and  of  Thanksgiving.  Now,  let  the  old  bell  ring." 

They  closed  the  lid  of  the  coffin  forever,  and  bore  the  body  to  the  open 
earth.  The  bell  began  to  ring.  The  voice  of  the  Elder  rose  in  a  sublime 
thanksgiving  Psalm,  as  the  bell  pealed  on,  and  the  grave  closed  over  all  that 
was  mortal  of  Hannah,  who  sang  conntre. 

The  people  left  the  grounds,  one  by  one.  The  struggle  was  ended.  The 
work  of  this  lone,  feeble  woman  was  done.  She  rested  at  last  on  the  day  of 
the  Great  Thanksgiving,  of  which  she  had  prophesied.  And  she  had  been 
there,  and  the  conntre  tone  of  her  life  had  never  made  sweeter  harmony. 

She  lies  in  a  grave  long  neglected ;  but  should  one  kneel  down  beside  the 
stone  that  is  sinking  slowly  into  the  earth,  and  peel  away  the  moss,  and  follow 
the  light  carving  on  the  blue  slate  under  some  quaint  pictures  of  cherubs,  one 

might  read,  — 

HANNAH  SEMPLE,  WHO  SANG  COUNTRE 
IN  THE  CHOIR,  ALTAT.  90. 

The  old  generation  has  been  gathered  to  their  fathers,  but  the  new  genera- 
tion still  feels  the  beneficent  influence  of  that  Great  Thanksgiving. 


CHAPTER   XL 

WHAT   MR.    MARLOWE    FOUND   TO   TAKE   HOME   IN   THE   STATE 

BUILDINGS. 

STORIES  OF  PUGET  SOUND  INDIANS,  SELECTED   OLD   STORY  OF  "THE  DEVIL  AND  TOM 
WALKER,"  A  FOLK-LORE  STORY  OF  OLD  RHODE  ISLAND  DAYS- 

IN    THE   FISHERIES  BUILDING. 


E  are  now  walking  in  the  sea,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe,  as 
the  trio  moved  along  the  Fisheries  Building;  "the 
inhabitants  of  the  waters  are  around  us  on  every 
hand." 

The  Fisheries  Building  was  built  of  everything 
beautiful  produced  by  the  sea.  It  would  have 
charmed  Ruskin.  It  was  one  thousand  feet  long  and  two  hundred 
wide ;  two  polygons  connected  by  an  arch.  It  was  built  of  marine 
forms ;  and  here,  for  the  first  time,  the  visitor  might  enter  as  it  were 
the  regions  of  the  waters  and  travel  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 
deep.  Japan  and  Norway  led  the  exhibits,  while  Massachusetts  finely 
presented  the  industries  of  Gloucester. 

"  I  find  here,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe,  "  an  idea  to  take  into  our  town 
life ;  it  is  shell  decorations  for  lawns  and  houses." 

He  took  his  note-book  and  wrote  down  the  things  that   pleased 
him  most  which  could  be  so  used. 

In   the  Agricultural    Building,    Mr.   Marlowe   found   like  hints   in 
structures  built  of  corn  and  cobs. 

In  the  Kansas  Building  he  saw  another  home  art  in  the  wonders 
of   taxidermy. 


238 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 


"  The  Arkansas  Building  is  in  the  French  style,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe, 
on  entering  that  beautiful  structure.  "  It  is  a  Folk-Lore  Building ; 
the  settlers  of  Arkansas  were  French.  The  floor  is  made  of  native 


KANSAS    KUILUIXG. 


pine ;  and,  see,  there  is  a  fountain  of  Hot  Springs'  crystals,  a  gift  of 
the  ladies  of  Hot  Springs." 

Here  they  found  a  book  made  of  seventy  kinds  of  wood,  and  Mr. 
Marlowe  found  in  this  a  new  idea  for  the  society  at  home. 

The  California  Building  was  one  of  the  most  imposing  and  self- 
interpreting  on  the  grounds.  It  was  Spanish,  and  was  built  after  the 
manner  of  the  ancient  adobe  mission-houses,  with  belfries  of  old 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME. 


•39 


Spanish  bells.  Here  Mr.  Marlowe  found  a  beautiful  "  roof-garden " 
as  a  feature  of  note.  The  exhibits  of  fruit  were  a  wonder,  and  led 
one  to  feel  the  greatness  of  the  State  of  beneficent  climate. 

In  the  Connecticut    Building    Mr.    Marlowe  found  an  old  settle, 
such  as  was  used  for  story-telling  purposes  in  colonial  times.     This 


FLORIDA   BUILDING. 


he  thought  might  be  reproduced  in  the  furniture  of  new  houses,  and 
used  for  historic  narratives  and  folk-tales,  as  in  the  times  of  the 
Puritans. 

The  Florida  Building  represented  Old  Fort  Marion,  and  was 
adorned  with  palm  like  bamboos,  and  overflowed  with  orange  cider. 
Here  Mr.  Marlowe  developed  the  idea  of  a  home  orange  party,  in 


240  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

which  the  decorations  should  be  of  orange  color,  the  refreshments 
-of  oranges,  with  a  lecture  on  different  varieties  of  oranges,  to  be 
illustrated  by  serving  the  fruit  as  described,  and  with  banjo  music  and 
Jog-cabin  songs,  or  the  music  of  Spanish  guitars. 

The  Idaho  House  was  a  log  cabin  of  gems.  It  had  a  very  curious 
room.  Here  the  rafters  were  decorated  with  strings  of  onions,  jerked 
beef,  bacon,  etc.,  to  recall  the  days  of  the  pioneers.  It  gave  Mr. 
Marlowe  an  idea  how  to  furnish  a  pioneer  kitchen  for  exhibitions. 
In  the  great  Illinois  House,  costing  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  Mr.  Marlowe  found  a  common-school  room  of  which  he  made 
note  for  home  service.  In  the  Iowa  State  Exhibition  House  Mr. 
Marlowe  became  greatly  interested  in  the  Corn  Palace,  which  adjoined 
the  main  building,  in  which  corn  was  enthroned  as  king.  Every- 
thing here  was  made  or  covered  with  corn.  He  believed  that  corn 
should  be  made  our  national  emblem ;  and  he  saw  here  how  to 
decorate  a  room  for  corn  festivals. 

In  the  Kentucky  Building  Mr.  Marlowe  found  a  fireplace  in  which 
a  whole  log  could  be  burned  at  once,  and  a  collection  of  Indian 
implements,  such  as  could  be  imitated  elsewhere.  The  Michigan 
Building  contained  a  collection  of  prairie  grasses  which  was  sugges- 
tive. The  Minnesota  Building  had  a  lambrequin  of  shells  strung 
by  children,  and  the  Nebraska  House,  a  table  made  of  corn.  The 
New  Hampshire  House  had  a  collection  of  ordinary  grasses.  The 
Virginia  Building  had  an  old-time  four-post  bedstead,  such  as  could 
be  imitated  in  an  antique  room.  The  New  York  and  Pennsylvania 
Buildings  were  palaces;  and  the  flag-staff  in  front  of  the  Washington 
Building  was  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  in  height.  In  many 
of  the  buildings  were  palms,  in  many  ornaments  of  corn,  and  in  some 
of  shells. 

"  Corn  and  palms  are  elected  here  as  our  national  emblems,"  said 
Mr.  Marlowe.  "  Corn  lands  and  palm  lands  are  we!  The  two  should 
go  together.  Let  us  put  them  side  by  side  in  our  patriotic  decora- 
tions, —  the  Corn  and  the  Palm  !  " 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND   TO   TAKE  HOME. 


243 


ILLINOIS    STATE   BUILDING. 


The  stories  told  at  the  Folk-Lore  Society  at  their  next  gathering 
were  interesting.  A  delegate  from  Washington  related  tales  of  the 
Puget  Sound  Indians;  and  Mr.  Marlowe,  as  a  picture  of  early  Boston 
superstitions,  read  the  classic  tale,  by  America's  early  story-writer, 
entitled,  "  The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker."  A  Rhode  Islander  related 
a  story  which  was  an  historical  picture  of  the  early  days  of  his 
own  State. 


244  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE    CITY. 

PUGET   SOUND   INDIANS. 

THE  saddest  sight  in  the  streets  of  the  young  cities  of  Puget  Sound,  is  the 
remnant  of  the  great  tribes  of  Indians  who  once  possessed  the  land.  These 
descendants  of  the  ancient  forest  kings  and  warriors  come  wandering  from  their 
reservations  into  Seattle,  Tacoma,  and  Olympia  in  blankets  and  moccasins,  in 
yellow  paint  and  rags. 

They  crouch  down  in  the  shadows  of  alley-ways  and  street  corners,  and 
wonder  at  all  the  strange  progress  that  is  going  on  around  them.  Every 
passer-by  reminds  them  of  their  inferiority. 

Or,  borne  into  the  noisy  town  on  his  little  Cayuse  pony,  the  dusky  pen- 
sioner of  a  vanishing  race  ambles  his  way  along,  amid  crowding  vehicles  and 
electric  cars,  and  vaguely  comprehends  that  the  steam  whistle  has  forever 
drowned  the  war-whoop  of  the  old  forest  days. 

Wherever  he  goes  he  sees  the  giant  trees,  two  hundred  feet  high,  with 
trunks  so  large  that  a  house  might  be  made  within  them,  tumbling  around  him 
beneath  the  axe,  the  blasting  powder  and  fire.  Even  the  stumps  vanish  as  the 
domes  and  spires  and  flagstaffs  rise. 

It  is  all  going,  the  romantic  and  heroic  barbarism  ;  it  will  soon  be  gone, 
and  become  a  painter's  dream  and  a  poet's  legend. 

The  old  Snohomish  tribe  still  lingers  amid  the  valleys  of  the  snow-crowned 
mountains,  as  do  the  Spokanes  and  the  Nez  Perces.  The  tribes  of  the  Walla 
Wallas  and  Wallulas  or  Walloas  fall  like  leaves,  bequeathing  to  the  system  which 
succeeds  them  only  their  poetic  names.  The  Yakimas  still  hold  a  considerable 
territory,  as  do  the  Klickitats.  But  one  fate  awaits  them  all.  Their  feet 
vanish  wherever  the  white  man  builds  his  road. 

The  savage  traits  and  evil  dispositions  of  these  Indian  races  have  long  been 
the  subject  of  sensational  writing.  Let  us  speak  of  what  was  and  is  noble  in 
them, —  as  a  Schoolcraft  or  a  Longfellow  would  see  them.  If  the  new  country 
is  filled  with  legends  of  their  ignorance  and  barbarism,  it  is  also  full  of  beauti- 
ful stories  of  their  gratitude,  fidelity,  and  benevolence. 

"  Why  does  not  the  wonderful  city  of  Seattle  in  some  way  pension  the 
daughter  of  old  Seattle,  the  chief?"  I  once  asked  a  wealthy  ex-mayor  of  that 
city.  "  She  is  a  beggar  in  the  streets." 

"Oh,"  said  the  millionnaire,  "  it  would  do  her  no  good.  She  would  give  it 
all  away  to  her  own  people.  Give  her  fifty  dollars  to-clay,  and  she  would  have 
nothing  to-morrow." 

The  reply  gave  me  a  feeling  of  respect  for  poor  old  Angeline,  the  rag- 
picking  princess  of  Seattle. 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO   TAKE  HOME. 


245 


WOMAN'S  BUILDING. 

Among  the  homesteading  pioneers,  there  came  to  the  great  timber  lands  a 
New  England  family  by  the  name,  we  will  say,  of  Brewster,  as  it  is  a  good  one. 
The  young  people  had  a  battle  with  the  great  pines  and  firs  and  the  bears,  and 
with  a  clearing.  They  had  a  rich  aunt  in  old  Massachusetts ;  and  as  young 
Brewster  was  her  favorite,  she  decided  to  come  and  make  her  home  with  him. 

She  was  a  benevolent  old  lady,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  all  the  village 
churches  of  New  England.  Her  first  concern,  upon  arriving  in  the  new  country, 
was  to  find  a  way  to  invest  a  part  of  her  money  in  missionary  enterprises. 

She  saw  an  Indian  graveyard  in  the  trees.  Then  she  met  some  Flatheads, 
and  was  at  once  happy  in  the  thought  that  a  special  providence  had  directed 
her  here,  as  a  pioneer  in  a  mission  field. 

She  secured  as  a  first  pupil  an  Indian  by  the  name  of  Curley.  Finding  that 
he  and  his  family  lived  in  a  tent  of  skins,  she  thought  that  she  would  build  for 


246  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

him  a  house,  and  promised  him  that  she  would  go  and  visit  him  when  it  was 
completed. 

"  What  kind  of  a  house  would  you  like  to  have,  Curley?  "  she  asked,  one  day 
after  he  had  been  especially  teachable. 

"  Oh,  a  white  house  like  the  Great  Father's  at  Washington." 
"  Aunt  Boston  "  gave  Curley  one  hundred  dollars  to  build  a  white  house,  and 
he  rode  away  delighted,  on  his  little  Cayuse  horse. 

Weeks  passed ;  Christmas  came,  and  good  Aunt  Boston  thought  that  she 
would  ride  over  to  the  reservation  and  surprise  Curley  in  the  new  white  house, 
which  she  had  not  yet  seen.  The  thought  greatly  pleased  her,  as  Curley  had 
told  her  that  he  was  raising  a  Cayuse  colt  as  a  present  for  her. 

So  she  set  out  on  Christmas  morning  in  a  mountain  wagon.  The  air  was 
clear  and  warm,  for  the  Puget  Sound  atmosphere  is  an  almost  continuous 
springtime.  The  tops  of  the  giant  firs  were  filled  with  sunlight  instead  of 
snow.  Here  and  there  a  deer  bounded  across  the  way. 

She  came  at  last  to  a  clearing,  and  saw  the  white  house. 

There  was  no  mistaking  it.  Close  by  was  a  tent  of  skins,  which  she  took 
to  be  the  former  habitation  of  Curley.  She  rode  up  to  the  white  house.  The 
window  was  open. 

The  rattle  of  the  wheels  had  caused  a  commotion  in  the  interesting  place. 
A  pretty  Cayuse  colt  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  of  the  white  house,  and 
Curley  at  the  same  time  opened  the  fold  of  the  tent. 

Aunt  Boston  was  quite  outdone  in  her  plan  of  benevolence.  Curley  had 
made  the  white  house  a  stable  for  her  colt,  and  was  as  happy  as  she  in  his 
plans  of  benevolence  and  chanty. 

An  Episcopal  missionary  recently  told  me,  to  his  own  disadvantage,  the 
following  story,  which  illustrates  the  same  generous  trait  in  the  Puget  Sound 
Indians:  — 

"  There  once  came  to  the  mission  station  on  a  visit  an  old  Christian  Indian, 
and  he  continued  to  make  the  mission  his  home.  In  my  early  work  in  the 
territory  I  had  lived  with  him,  and  had  found  him  very  brotherly  and  benevo- 
lent. He  had  shared  everything  with  me. 

"  A  month  or  more  passed,  and  as  he  gave  me  no  hint  of  departure,  and  did 
nothing  toward  the  support  of  himself  or  the  cause,  I  said  to  him,  - 

"'  Mountain  Pine,  you  have  been  here  two  moons  ;  how  much  longer  do  you 
intend  to  stay? ' 

"  '  It  may  be  one  week,  it  may  be  one  month,  it  may  be  one  year,  it  may  be 
one  life.1 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE   FOUND    TO   TAKE   HOME.  247 

"  '  But,  Mountain  Pine,  the  Good  Book  says  that  if  a  man  do  not  work, 
neither  shall  he  eat.' 

"  Mountain  Pine  rose  slowly,  and  drew  his  blanket  around  him.     He  raised 
his  arm  and  pointed  to  the  chapel. 

" '  Do  you  wah-wah  over  there?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  you  know,  Mountain  Pine,  there  is  where  I  worship.' 

"  '  Brother,  you  wah-wah  over  there.  You  came  a  stranger  to  me  in  my 
cabin.  I  say,  "  You  have  half;  you  may  stay  one  week,  you  may  stay  one 
moon,  you  may  stay  one  year,  you  may  stay  one  life.  I  hunt  and  give  you  half 
my  venison.'  I  come  to  your  cabin.  You  say,  "  How  long  you  stay?"  You 
say,  "  You  go  work !  " 

"  '  You  wah-wah  over  there.     You  heap  ivak-ivah,  but  you  no  good !  ' 

"  He  drew  his  blanket  closer  around  him,  and  majestically  strode  out  of  the 
house,  and  I  never  saw  Mountain  Pine  again." 

The  favorite  chiefs  of  the  early  settlers  were  Seattle  and  Pat  Keanim,  of  the 
Snoqualmees.  Seattle  was  appointed  chief  by  a  territorial  governor,  but  Pat 
Keanim  had  the  heart  of  his  people.  He  espoused  the  cause  of  the  pioneers 
and  fought  for  them,  and  though  often  distrusted,  was  true  in  the  dark  days  of 
the  war.  He  had  a  poetic  and  really  beautiful  face. 

The  hop  harvest  in  the  Puyallup  valley  yearly  gathers  the  Indians  there,  as 
they  used  to  meet,  according  to  the  old  legend,  in  the  happy  valley  of  the 
Olympic  mountains.  The  harvest  begins  in  August,  and  lasts  a  month. 

The  days  are  bright,  and  at  night  the  moon  hangs  clear  over  the  waters. 
Working  people,  young  and  old,  Indians,  Chinese,  white  people,  black  people, 
every  one  desiring  much  money  for  light  work,  congregate  here. 

All  is  gay  and  happy.  The  nights  are  festivals.  Hither  the  Indians  come 
on  Cayuse  horses  and  in  canoes.  Their  boats  fill  the  harbors.  And  here  the 
dying  races  renew  their  primitive  life. 


THE  DEVIL  AND  TOM  WALKER 

A  FEW  miles  from  Boston,  in  Massachusetts,  there  is  a  deep  inlet  winding 
several  miles  into  the  interior  of  the  country  from  Charles  Bay,  and  terminating 
in  a  thickly  wooded  swamp,  or  morass.  On  one  side  of  this  inlet  is  a  beautiful 
dark  grove ;  on  the  opposite  side  the  land  rises  abruptly  from  the  water's  edge, 
into  a  high  ridge,  on  which  grow  a  few  scattered  oaks  of  great  age  and  immense 
size.  It  was  under  one  of  these  gigantic  trees,  according  to  old  stories,  that 
Kidd,  the  pirate,  buried  his  treasure.  The  inlet  allowed  a  facility  to  bring  the 


248 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 


CHINESE   THEATRE. 


money  in  a  boat  secretly,  and  at  night,  to  the  very  foot  of  the  hill.  The  eleva- 
tion of  the  place  permitted  a  good  look-out  to  be  kept,  that  no  one  was  at 
hand ;  while  the  remarkable  trees  formed  good  landmarks  by  which  the  place 
might  easily  be  found  again.  The  old  stories  add,  moreover,  that  the  devil 
presided  at  the  hiding  of  the  money,  and  took  it  under  his  guardianship ;  but 
this,  it  is  well  known,  he  always  does  with  buried  treasure,  particularly  when  it 
has  been  ill  gotten.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Kidd  never  returned  to  recover  his 
wealth, —  being  shortly  after  seized  at  Boston,  sent  out  to  England,  and  there 
hanged  for  a  pirate. 

About  the  year  1727,  just  at  the  time  when  earthquakes  were  prevalent  in 
New  England,  and  shook  many  tall  sinners  down  upon  their  knees,  there  lived 
near  this  place  a  meagre,  miserly  fellow  of  the  name  of  Tom  Walker.  He  had 
a  wife  as  miserly  as  himself;  they  were  so  miserly  that  they  even  conspired  to 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME.  249 

cheat  each  other.  Whatever  the  woman  could  lay  hands  on  she  hid  away;  a 
hen  could  not  cackle  but  she  was  on  the  alert  to  secure  the  new-laid  egg.  Her 
husband  was  continually  prying  about  to  detect  her  secret  hoards,  and  many 
and  fierce  were  the  conflicts  that  took  place  about  what  ought  to  have  been 
common  property.  They  lived  in  a  forlorn-looking  house,  that  stood  alone, 
and  had  an  air  of  starvation.  A  few  straggling  savin-trees,  emblems  of 
sterility,  grew  near  it;  no  smoke  ever  curled  from  its  chimney;  no  traveller 
stopped  at  its  door.  A  miserable  horse,  whose  ribs  were  as  articulate  as  the 
bars  of  a  gridiron,  stalked  about  a  field  where  a  thin  carpet  of  moss,  scarcely 
covering  the  ragged  beds  of  pudding-stone,  tantalized  and  balked  his  hunger, 
and  sometimes  he  would  lean  his  head  over  the  fence,  look  piteously  at  the 
passer-by,  and  seem  to  petition  deliverance  from  this  land  of  famine.  The 
house  and  its  inmates  had  altogether  a  bad  name.  Tom's  wife  was  a  tall 
termagant,  fierce  of  temper,  loud  of  tongue,  and  strong  of  arm.  Her  voice 
was  often  heard  in  wordy  warfare  with  her  husband  ;  and  his  face  sometimes 
showed  signs  that'their  conflicts  were  not  confined  to  words.  No  one  ventured, 
however,  to  interfere  between  them  :  the  lonely  wayfarer  shrunk  within  himself 
at  the  horrid  clamor  and  clapper-clawing,  eyed  the  den  of  discord  askance, 
and  hurried  on  his  way,  rejoicing,  if  a  bachelor,  in  his  celibacy. 

One  day  that  Tom  Walker  had  been  to  a  distant  part  of  the  neighborhood, 
he  took  what  he  considered  a  short  cut  homewards,  through  the  swamp.  Like 
most  short  cuts,  it  was  an  ill-chosen  route.  The  swamp  was  thickly  grown 
with  great  gloomy  pines  and  hemlocks,  some  of  them  ninety  feet  high,  which 
made  it  dark  at  noon-day,  and  a  retreat  for  all  the  owls  of  the  neighborhood. 
It  was  full  of  pits  and  quagmires,  partly  covered  with  weeds  and  mosses,  where 
the  green  surface  often  betrayed  the  traveller  into  a  gulf  of  black  smothering 
mud  ;  there  were  also  dark  and  stagnant  pools,  the  abodes  of  the  tadpole,  the 
bull-frog,  and  the  water-snake,  and  where  trunks  of  pines  and  hemlocks  lay 
half  drowned,  half  rotting,  looking  like  alligators  sleeping  in  the  mire. 

Tom  had  long  been  picking  his  way  cautiously  through  this  treacherous 
forest,  —  stepping  from  tuft  to  tuft  of  rushes  and  roots  which  afforded  precarious 
footholds  among  deep  sloughs ;  or  pacing  carefully,  like  a  cat,  along  the  pros- 
trate trunks  of  trees,  —  startled  now  and  then  by  the  sudden  screaming  of  the 
bittern,  or  the  quacking  of  a  wild  duck,  rising  on  the  wing  from  some  solitary 
pool.  At  length  he  arrived  at  a  piece  of  firm  ground,  which  ran  out  like  a 
peninsula  into  the  deep  bosom  of  the  swamp.  It  had  been  one  of  the  strong- 
holds of  the  Indians  during  their  wars  with  the  first  colonists.  Here  they  had 
thrown  up  a  kind  of  fort  which  they  had  looked  upon  as  almost  impregnable, 
and  had  used  as  a  place  of  refuge  for  their  squaws  and  children.  Nothing 


250  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

remained  of  the  Indian  fort  but  a  few  embankments  gradually  sinking  to  the 
level  of  the  surrounding  earth,  and  already  overgrown  in  part  by  oaks  and 
other  forest  trees,  the  foliage  of  which  formed  a  contrast  to  the  dark  pines  and 
hemlocks  of  the  swamp. 

It  was  late  in  the  dusk  of  evening  that  Tom  Walker  reached  the  old  fort; 
and  he  paused  there  for  a  while  to  rest  himself.  Any  one  but  he  would  have 
felt  unwilling  to  linger  in  this  lonely  melancholy  place,  —  for  the  common 
people  had  a  bad  opinion  of  it  from  the  stories  handed  down  from  the  time  of  the 
Indian  wars,  when  it  was  asserted  that  the  savages  held  incantations  here,  and 
made  sacrifices  to  the  Evil  Spirit.  Tom  Walker,  however,  was  not  a  man  to  be 
troubled  with  any  fears  of  the  kind. 

He  reposed  himself  for  some  time  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  hemlock,  listen- 
ing to  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  and  delving  with  his  walking-staff  into 
a  mound  of  black  mould  at  his  feet.  As  he  turned  up  the  soil  unconsciously, 
his  staff  struck  against  something  hard.  He  raked  it  out  of  the  vegetable 
mould,  and  lo  !  a  cloven  skull  with  an  Indian  tomahawk  buried  deep  in  it,  lay 
before  him.  The  rust  on  the  weapon  showed  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since 
this  death-blow  had  been  given.  It  was  a  dreary  memento  of  the  fierce  struggle 
that  had  taken  place  in  the  last  foothold  of  the  Indian  warriors. 

"  Humph !  "  said  Tom  Walker,  as  he  gave  the  skull  a  kick  to  shake  the 
dirt  from  it. 

"  Leave  that  skull  alone !  "  said  a  gruff  voice. 

Tom  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  beheld  a  great  black  man,  seated  directly  opposite 
him  on  the  stump  of  a  tree.  He  was  exceedingly  surprised,  having  neither 
seen  nor  heard  any  one  approach,  and  he  was  still  more  perplexed  on  observ- 
ing, as  well  as  the  gathering  gloom  would  permit,  that  the  stranger  was  neither 
negro  nor  Indian.  It  is  true,  he  was  dressed  in  a  rude  half-Indian  garb,  and 
had  a  red  belt  or  sash  swathed  round  his  body ;  but  his  face  Was  neither  black 
nor  copper  color,  but  swarthy  and  dingy  and  begrimed  with  soot,  as  if  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  toil  among  fires  and  forges.  He  had  a  shock  of  coarse 
black  hair,  that  stood  out  from  his  head  in  all  directions,  and  he  bore  an  axe  on 
his  shoulder. 

He  scowled  for  a  moment  at  Tom  with  a  pair  of  great  red  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  my  grounds?"  said  the  black  man,  with  a  hoarse 
growling  voice. 

"  Your  grounds?  "  said  Tom,  with  a  sneer;  "no  more  your  grounds  than 
mine,  —  they  belong  to  Deacon  Peabody." 

"  Deacon  Peabody  be  damned,"  said  the  stranger,  "  as  I  flatter  myself  he 
will  be,  if  he  does  not  look  more  to  his  own  sins  and  less  to  his  neighbors'. 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE   FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME  251 

Look  yonder,  and  see  how  Deacon  Peabody  is  faring."  Tom  looked  in  the 
direction  that  the  stranger  pointed,  and  beheld  one  of  the  great  trees,  fair  and 
flourishing  without,  but  rotten  at  the  core,  and  saw  that  it  had  been  nearly 
hewn  through,  so  that  the  first  high  wind  was  likely  to  blow  it  down.  On  the 
bark  of  the  tree  was  scored  the  name  of  Deacon  Peabody.  He  now  looked 
round,  and  found  most  of  the  tall  trees  marked  with  the  name  of  some  great 
men  of  the  colony,  and  all  more  or  less  scored  by  the  axe.  The  one  on  which 
he  had  been  seated,  and  which  had  just  been  hewn  down,  bore  the  name  of 
Crowninshield  ;  and  he  recollected  a  mighty  rich  man  of  that  name,  who  made 
a  vulgar  display  of  wealth,  which  it  was  whispered  he  had  acquired  by 
buccaneering. 

"  He 's  just  ready  for  burning!  "  said  the  black  man,  with  a  growl  of  tri- 
umph. "  You  see  I  am  likely  to  have  a  good  stock  of  firewood  for  winter." 

"  But  what  right  have  you,"  said  Tom,  "  to  cut  down  Deacon  Peabody's 
timber?  " 

"The  right  of  prior  claim,"  said  the  other.  "This  woodland  belonged  to 
me  long  before  one  of  your  white-faced  Yankee  race  of  rascals  put  foot  upon 
the  soil." 

"  And  pray,  who  are  you,  if  I  may  be  so  bold?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Oh,  I  go  by  various  names.  I  am  the  Wild  Huntsman  in  some  countries ; 
the  Black  Miner  in  others.  In  this  neighborhood  I  am  known  by  the  name  of 
the  Black  Woodsman.  I  am  he  to  whom  the  red  men  devoted  this  spot,  and 
now  and  then  roasted  a  white  man  by  way  of  sweet-smelling  sacrifice.  Since 
the  red  men  have  been  exterminated  by 'you  white  savages,  I  amuse  myself  by 
presiding  at  the  persecutions  of  Quakers  and  Anabaptists.  I  am  the  great 
patron  and  prompter  of  slave-dealers,  and  the  grand  master  of  the  Salem 
witches." 

"  The  upshot  of  all  which  is,  that,  if  I  mistake  not,"  said  Tom,  sturdily, 
"  you  are  he  commonly  called  Old  Scratch." 

"  The  name  at  your  service  !  "  replied  the  black  man,  with  a  half-civil  nod. 

Such  was  the  opening  of  this  interview,  according  to  the  old  story,  though 
it  has  almost  too  familiar  an  air  to  be  credited.  One  would  think  that  to  meet 
with  such  a  singular  personage  in  this  wild  lonely  place,  would  have  shaken 
any  man's  nerves;  but  Tom  was  a  hard-minded  fellow,  not  easily  daunted,  and 
he  had  lived  so  long  with  a  termagant  wife,  that  he  did  not  even  fear  the  devil. 

It  is  said  that  after  this  commencement,  they  had  a  long  and  earnest  con- 
versation together,  as  Tom  returned  homewards.  The  black  man  told  him  of 
great  sums  of  money  which  had  been  buried  by  Kidd  the  pirate,  under  the  oak- 
trees  on  the  high  ridge  not  far  from  the  morass.  All  these  were  under  his 


252  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 

command  and  protected  by  his  power,  so  that  none  could  find  them  but  such 
as  propitiated  his  favor.  These  he  offered  to  place  in  Tom  Walker's  reach, 
having  conceived  an  especial  kindness  for  him;  but  they  were  to  be  had  only 
on  certain  conditions.  What  these  conditions  were,  may  be  easily  surmised, 
though  Tom  never  disclosed  them  publicly.  They  must  have  been  very  hard, 
for  he  required  time  to  think  of  them,  and  he  was  not  a  man  to  stick  at  trifles 
where  money  was  in  view.  When  they  reached  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  the 
stranger  paused. 

"  What  proof  have  I  that  all  you  have  been  telling  me  is  true?  "  said  Torn. 

"  There  is  my  signature,"  said  the  black  man,  pressing  his  finger  on  Tom's 
forehead.  So  saying,  he  turned  oft"  among  the  thickets  of  the  swamp,  and 
seemed,  as  Tom  said,  to  go  down,  down,  down,  into  the  earth,  until  nothing 
but  his  head  and  shoulders  could  be  seen,  and  so  on,  until  he  totally 
disappeared. 

When  Tom  reached  home  he  found  the  black  print  of  a  finger  burnt,  as  it 
were,  into  his  forehead,  which  nothing  could  obliterate. 

The  first  news  his  wife  had  to  tell  him  was  the  sudden  death  of  Absalom 
Crowninshield,  the  rich  buccaneer.  It  was  announced  in  the  papers,  with  the 
usual  flourish,  that  "  a  great  man  had  fallen  in  Israel." 

Tom  recollected  the  tree  which  his  black  friend  had  just  hewn  down,  and 
which  was  ready  for  burning.  "  Let  the  freebooter  roast,"  said  Tom  ;  "  who 
cares !  "  He  now  felt  convinced  that  all  he  had  heard  and  seen  was  no 
illusion. 

He  was  not  prone  to  let  his  wife  into  his  confidence ;  but  as  this  was  an 
uneasy  secret,  he  willingly  shared  it  with  her.  All  her  avarice  was  awakened 
at  the  mention  of  hidden  gold,  and  she  urged  her  husband  to  comply  with  the 
black  man's  terms,  and  secure  what  would  make  them  wealthy  for  life.  How- 
ever Tom  might  have  felt  disposed  to  sell  himself  to  the  devil,  he  was  deter- 
mined not  to  do  so  to  oblige  his  wife;  so  he  flatly  refused,  out  of  the  mere 
spirit  of  contradiction.  Many  and  bitter  were  the  quarrels  they  had  on  the 
subject;  but  the  more  she  talked,  the  more  resolute  was  Tom  not  to  be  damned 
to  please  her.  At  length  she  determined  to  drive  the  bargain  on  her  own 
account,  and  if  she  succeeded,  to  keep  all  the  gain  to  herself.  Being  of  the 
same  fearless  temper  as  her  husband,  she  set  off  for  the  old  Indian  fort  toward 
the  close  of  a  summer's  day.  She  was  many  hours  absent.  When  she  came 
back  she  was  reserved  and  sullen  in  her  replies.  She  spoke  something  of  a 
black  man  whom  she  had  met  about  twilight,  hewing  at  the  root  of  a  tall  tree. 
He  was  sulky,  however,  and  would  not  come  to  terms ;  she  was  to  go  again 
with  a  propitiatory  offering;  but  what  it  was  she  forbore  to  say.  The  next 


• 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME.  255 

evening  she  set  off  again  for  the  swamp,  with  her  apron  heavily  laden.  Tom 
waited  and  waited  for  her,  but  in  vain :  midnight  came,  but  she  did  not  make 
her  appearance;  morning,  noon,  night  returned,  but  still  she  did  not  come- 
Tom  now  grew  uneasy  for  her  safety;  especially  as  he  found  she  had  carried 
off  in  her  apron  the  silver  tea-pot  and  spoons,  and  every  portable  article  of 
value.  Another  night  elapsed,  another  morning  came;  but  no  wife.  In  a 
word,  she  was  never  heard  of  more. 

What  was  her  real  fate  nobody  knows,  in  consequence  of  so  many  pretend- 
ing to  know.  It  is  one  of  those  facts  that  have  become  confounded  by  a 
variety  of  historians.  Some  assert  that  she  lost  her  way  among  the  tangled 
mazes  of  the  swamp,  and  sunk  into  some  pit  or  slough ;  others,  more  unchari- 
table, hinted  that  she  had  eloped  with  the  household  booty,  and  made  off  to 
some  other  province ;  while  others  assert  that  the  Tempter  had  decoyed  her 
into  a  dismal  quagmire,  on  top  of  which  her  hat  was  found  lying.  In  confirma- 
tion of  this,  it  was  said  a  great  black  man,  with  an  axe  on  his  shoulder,  was  seen 
late  that  very  evening  coming  out  of  the  swamp,  carrying  a  bundle  tied  in  a 
check  apron,  with  an  air  of  surly  triumph. 

The  most  current  and  probable  story,  however,  observes  that  Tom  Walker 
grew  so  anxious  about  the  fate  of  his  wife  and  his  property  that  he  set  out  at 
length  to  seek  them  both  at  the  Indian  fort.  During  a  long  summer's  after- 
noon, he  searched  about  the  gloomy  place,  but  no  wife  was  to  be  seen.  He 
called  her  name  repeatedly,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  heard.  The  bittern 
alone  responded  to  his  voice,  as  he  flew  screaming  by;  or  the  bull-frog  croaked 
dolefully  from  a  neighboring  pool.  At  length,  it  is  said,  just  in  the  brown 
hour  of  twilight,  when  the  owls  began  to  hoot  and  the  bats  to  flit  about,  his 
attention  was  attracted  by  the  clamor  of  carrion  crows  that  were  hovering 
about  a  cypress-tree.  He  looked,  and  beheld  a  bundle  tied  in  a  check  apron, 
and  hanging  in  the  branches  of  the  tree,  with  a  great  vulture  perched  hard  by, 
as  if  keeping  watch  upon  it.  He  leaped  with  joy,  for  he  recognized  his  wife's 
apron,  and  supposed  it  to  contain  the  household  valuables. 

"Let  us  get  hold  of  the  property,"  said  he,  consolingly  to  himself,  "  and  we 
will  endeavor  to  do  without  the  woman." 

As  he  scrambled  up  the  tree,  the  vulture  spread  its  wide  wings,  and  sailed 
off  screaming  into  the  deep  shadows  of  the  forest  Tom  seized  the  check 
apron,  but,  woful  sight!  found  nothing  but  a  heart  and  liver  tied  up  in  it. 

Such,  according  to  the  most  authentic  old  story,  was  all  that  was  to  be 
found  of  Tom's  wife.  She  had  probably  attempted  to  deal  with  the  black  man 
as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  deal  with  her  husband  ;  but  though  a  female 
scold  is  generally  considered  a  match  for  the  devil,  yet  in  this  instance  she 


256  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

appears  to  have  had  the  worst  of  it.  She  must  have  died  game,  however,  from 
the  part  that  remained  unconquered.  Indeed,  it  is  said  Tom  noticed  many 
prints  of  cloven  feet  deeply  stamped  about  the  tree,  and  several  handfuls  of 
hair,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  plucked  from  the  coarse  black  shock  of 
the  woodsman.  Tom  knew  his  wife's  prowess  by  experience.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  he  looked  at  the  signs  of  a  fierce  clapper-clawing.  "  Egad," 
said  he  to  himself,  "  Old  Scratch  must  have  had  a  tough  time  of  it !  " 

Tom  consoled  himself  for  the  loss  of  his  property  by  the  loss  of  his  wife; 
for  he  was  a  little  of  a  philosopher.  He  even  felt  something  like  gratitude 
toward  the  Black  Woodsman,  who  he  considered  had  done  him  a  kindness. 
He  sought,  therefore,  to  cultivate  a  further  acquaintance  with  him,  but  for 
some  time  without  success :  the  old  black  legs  played  shy,  for  whatever  people 
may  think,  he  is  not  always  to  be  had  for  calling  for;  he  knows  how  to  play 
his  cards  when  pretty  sure  of  his  game. 

At  length,  it  is  said,  when  delay  had  whetted  Tom's  eagerness  to  the  quick, 
and  prepared  him  to  agree  to  anything  rather  than  not  gain  the  promised 
treasure,  he  met  the  black  man  one  evening  in  his  usual  woodman  dress,  with 
his  axe  on  his  shoulder,  sauntering  along  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  and  humming 
a  tune.  He  affected  to  receive  Tom's  advance  with  great  indifference,  made 
brief  replies,  and  went  on  humming  his  tune. 

By  degrees,  however,  Tom  brought  him  to  business,  and  they  began  to 
haggle  about  the  terms  on  which  the  former  was  to  have  the  pirate's  treasure. 
There  was  one  condition  which  need  not  be  mentioned,  being  generally  under- 
stood in  all  cases  where  the  devil  grants  favors ;  but  there  were  others  about 
which,  though  of  less  importance,  he  was  inflexibly  obstinate.  He  insisted 
that  the  money  found  through  his  means  should  be  employed  in  his  service. 
He  proposed,  therefore,  that  Tom  should  employ  it  in  the  black  traffic,  that  is 
to  say,  that  he  should  fit  out  a  slave  ship.  This,  however,  Tom  resolutely  re- 
fused ;  he  was  bad  enough  in  all  conscience,  but  the  devil  himself  could  not 
tempt  him  to  turn  slave-dealer. 

Finding  Tom  so  squeamish  on  this  point,  he  did  not  insist  upon  it;  but 
proposed  instead  that  he  should  turn  usurer,  —  the  devil  being  extremely 
anxious  for  the  increase  of  usurers,  looking  upon  them  as  his  peculiar  people. 
To  this  no  objections  were  made,  for  it  was  just  to  Tom's  taste. 

"  You  shall  open  a  broker's  shop  in  Boston  next  month,"  said  the  black  man. 

"  T  '11  do  it  to-morrow,  if  you  wish,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  shall  lend  money  at  two  per  cent,  a  month." 

"  Egad,  I  '11  charge  four!  "  replied  Tom  Walker 

"You  shall  extort  bonds,  foreclose  mortgages,  drive  the  merchant  to  bank- 
ruptcy— 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO   TAKE  HOME.  257 

"  I  '11  drive  him  to  the  devil,"  cried  Tom,  eagerly. 

"  You  are  the  usurer  for  my  money !  "  said  the  black  legs,  with  delight. 
"  When  will  you  want  the  rhino?  " 

"  This  very  night." 

"  Done  !  "  said  the  devil. 

"  Done !  "  said  Tom  Walker.     So  they  shook  hands,  and  struck  a  bargain. 

A  few  days'  time  saw  Tom  Walker  seated  behind  his  desk  in  a  counting- 
house  in  Boston.  His  reputation  for  a  ready  moneyed  man,  who  would  lend 
money  out  for  a  good  consideration,  soon  spread  abroad.  Everybody  remem- 
bers the  days  of  Governor  Belcher,  when  money  was  particularly  scarce.  It 
was  a  time  of  paper  credit.  The  country  had  been  deluged  with  government 
bills;  the  famous  Land  Bank  had  been  established;  there  had  been  a  rage 
for  speculation ;  the  people  had  run  mad  with  schemes  for  new  settlements, 
and  for  building  cities  in  the  wilderness ;  land-jobbers  went  about  with  maps 
of  grants,  and  townships,  and  Eldorados,  lying  nobody  knew  where,  but  which 
everybody  was  ready  to  purchase.  In  a  word,  the  great  speculating  fever 
which  breaks  out  every  now  and  then  in  the  country,  had  raged  to  an  alarming 
degree,  and  everybody  was  dreaming  of  making  sudden  fortunes  from  nothing. 
As  usual,  the  fever  had  subsided ;  the  dream  had  gone  off,  —  and  the  imagi- 
nary fortunes  with  it,  —  the  patients  were  left  in  doleful  plight,  and  the  whole 
country  resounded  with  the  consequent  cry  of  "  hard  times." 

At  this  propitious  time  of  public  distress  did  Tom  Walker  set  up  as  a 
usurer  in  Boston.  His  door  was  soon  thronged  with  customers.  The  needy 
and  the  adventurous,  the  gambling  speculator,  the  dreaming  land-jobber,  the 
thriftless  tradesman,  the  merchant  with  cracked  credit, — in  short,  every  one 
driven  to  raise  money  by  desperate  means  and  desperate  sacrifices,  — hurried  to 
Tom  Walker.  Thus  Tom  was  the  universal  friend  of  the  needy,  and  he  acted 
like  "  a  friend  in  need,"  —  that  is  to  say,  he  always  exacted  good  pay  and  good 
security.  In  proportion  to  the  distress  of  the  applicant  was  the  hardness  of  his 
terms.  He  accumulated  bonds  and  mortgages,  gradually  squeezed  his  customers 
closer  and  closer,  and  sent  them  at  length  dry  as  a  sponge  from  his  door. 

In  this  way  he  made  money  hand  over  hand,  became  a  rich  and  mighty 
man,  and  exalted  his  cocked  hat  upon  'Change.  He  built  himself  a  vast  house 
out  of  ostentation,  but  left  the  greater  part  of  it  unfinished  and  unfurnished 
out  of  parsimony.  He  even  set  up  a  carriage  in  the  fulness  of  his  vain-glory, 
though  he  nearly  starved  the  horses  which  drew  it  ;  and  as  the  ungreased 
wheels  groaned  and  screeched  on  the  axle-trees,  you  would  have  thought  you 
heard  the  souls  of  the  poor  debtors  he  was  squeezing. 

17 


258  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

As  Tom  waxed  old,  however,  he  grew  thoughtful.  Having  secured  the 
good  things  of  this  world,  he  began  to  feel  anxious  about  those  of  the  next. 
He  thought  with  regret  on  the  bargain  he  had  made  with  his  black  friend,  and 
set  his  wits  to  work  to  cheat  him  out  of  the  conditions.  He  became,  therefore, 
all  of  a  sudden,  a  violent  church-goer.  He  prayed  loudly  and  strenuously,  as 
if  Heaven  were  to  be  taken  by  force  of  lungs.  Indeed,  one  might  always  tell 
when  he  had  sinned  most  during  the  week,  by  the  clamor  of  his  Sunday 
devotion.  The  quiet  Christians  who  had  been  modestly  and  steadfastly  travel- 
ling Zionward,  were  struck  with  self-reproach  at  seeing  themselves  so  suddenly 
outstripped  in  their  career  by  this  new-made  convert.  Tom  was  as  rigid  in 
religious  as  in  money  matters ;  he  was  a  stern  supervisor  and  censurer  of  his 
neighbors,  and  seemed  to  think  every  sin  entered  up  to  their  account  became 
a  credit  on  his  own  side  of  the  page.  He  even  talked  of  the  expediency  of 
reviving  the  persecution  of  Quakers  and  Anabaptists.  In  a  word,  Tom's  zeal 
became  as  notorious  as  his  riches. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  this  strenuous  attention  to  forms,  Tom  had  a  lurking 
dread  that  the  devil,  after  all,  would  have  his  due.  That  he  might  not  be  taken 
unawares,  therefore,  it  is  said  he  always  carried  a  small  Bible  in  his  coat  pocket. 
He  had  also  a  great  folio  Bible  on  his  counting-house  desk,  and  would  frequently 
be  found  reading  it  when  people  called  on  business ;  on  such  occasions  he 
would  lay  his  green  spectacles  on  the  book  to  mark  the  place,  while  he  turned 
around  to  drive  some  usurious  bargain. 

Some  say  that  Tom  grew  a  little  crack-brained  in  his  old  days,  and  that, 
fancying  his  end  approaching,  he  had  his  horse  new  shod,  saddled,  and  bridled, 
and  buried  with  his  feet  uppermost  ;  because  he  supposed  that  at  the  last  day 
the  world  would  be  turned  upside  down,  —  in  which  case  he  should  find  his 
horse  standing  ready  for  mounting,  and  he  was  determined  at  the  worst  to  give 
his  old  friend  a  run  for  it.  This,  however,  is  probably  a  mere  old  wives'  fable. 
If  he  really  did  take  such  a  precaution,  it  was  totally  superfluous  ;  at  least  so 
says  the  authentic  old  legend,  which  closes  his  story  in  the  following  manner: 

On  one  hot  afternoon  in  the  dog-days,  just  as  a  terrible  black  thunder-gust  was 
coming  up,  Tom  sat  in  his  counting-house  in  his  white  linen  cap  and  India  silk 
morning-gown.  He  was  on  the  point  of  foreclosing  a  mortgage,  by  which  he 
would  complete  the  ruin  of  an  unlucky  land-speculator,  for  whom  he  had  pro- 
fessed the  greatest  friendship.  The  poor  land-jobber  begged  him  to  grant  a 
few  months'  indulgence.  Tom  had  grown  testy  and  irritated,  and  refused 
another  day. 

"  My  family  will  be  ruined,  and  brought  upon  the  parish,"  said  the  land- 
jobber. 


MASONIC   TEMPLE. 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME.  261 

"  Charity  begins  at  home,"  replied  Tom  ;  "  I  must  take  care  of  myself  in 
these  hard  times." 

"  You  have  made  so  much  money  out  of  me,"  said  the  speculator. 

Tom  lost  his  patience  and  his  piety.  "  The  devil  take  me,"  said  he,  "  if  I 
have  made  a  farthing !  " 

Just  then  there  were  three  loud  knocks  at  the  street  door.  He  stepped  out 
to  see  who  was  there.  A  black  man  was  holding  a  black  horse,  which  neighed 
and  stamped  with  impatience. 

"  Tom,  you  're  come  for  !  "  said  the  black  fellow,  gruffly.  Tom  shrunk  back, 
but  too  late.  He  had  left  his  little  Bible  at  the  bottom  of  his  coat  pocket,  and 
his  big  Bible  on  the  desk,  buried  under  the  mortgage  he  was  about  to  foreclose. 
Never  was  sinner  taken  more  unawares.  The  black  man  whisked  him  like  a 
child  astride  the  horse,  and  away  he  galloped  in  the  midst  of  a  thunder-storm. 
The  clerks  stuck  their  pens  behind  their  ears,  and  stared  after  him  from  the 
windows.  Away  went  Tom  Walker,  dashing  down  the  streets,  his  white  cap 
bobbing  up  and  down,  his  morning-gown  fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  his  steed 
striking  fire  out  of  the  pavement  at  every  bound.  When  the  clerks  turned  to 
look  for  the  black  man  he  had  disappeared. 

Tom  Walker  never  returned  to  foreclose  the  mortgage.  A  countryman  who 
lived  on  the  borders  of  the  swamp,  reported  that  in  the  height  of  the  thunder- 
gust  he  had  heard  a  great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  howling  along  the  road,  and 
that  when  he  ran  to  the  window  he  just  caught  sight  of  a  figure,  such  as  I  have 
described,  on  a  horse  that  galloped  like  mad  across  the  fields,  over  the  hills  and 
down  into  the  black  hemlock  swamp  toward  the  old  Indian  fort ;  and  that 
shortly  after  a  thunder-bolt  fell  in  that  direction,  which  seemed  to  set  the 
whole  forest  in  a  blaze. 

The  good  people  of  Boston  shook  their  heads  and  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
but  had  been  so  much  accustomed  to  witches  and  goblins  and  tricks  of  the 
devil  in  all  kinds  of  shapes  from  the  first  settlement  of  the  colony,  that  they 
were  not  so  much  horror-struck  as  might  have  been  expected.  Trustees  were 
appointed  to  take  charge  of  Tom's  effects.  There  was  nothing,  however,  to 
administer  upon.  On  searching  his  coffers,  all  his  bonds  and  mortgages  were 
found  reduced  to  cinders.  In  place  of  gold  and  silver,  his  iron  chest  was  filled 
with  chips  and  shavings ;  two  skeletons  lay  in  his  stable  instead  of  his  half- 
starved  horses  ;  and  the  very  next  day  his  great  house  took  fire  and  was  burnt 
to  the  ground. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Tom  Walker  and  his  ill-gotten  wealth.  Let  all  griping 
money-brokers  lay  this  to  heart.  The  truth  of  it  is  not  to  be  doubted.  The 
very  hole  under  the  oak-trees,  from  whence  he  dug  Kidd's  money,  is  to  be  seen 


262  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY, 

to  this  day  ;  and  the  neighboring  swamp  and  old  Indian  fort  is  often  haunted 
in  stormy  nights  by  a  figure  on  horseback,  in  a  morning-gown  and  white  cap, 
which  is  doubtless  the  troubled  spirit  of  the  usurer.  In  fact,  the  story  has 
resolved  itself  into  a  proverb,  and  is  the  origin  of  that  popular  saying,  prevalent 
throughout  New  England,  of  "THE  DEVIL  AND  TOM  WALKER." 


THE    OLD    SMOKE   CHAMBER. 

A   PICTURE   OF   THE   MOUNT    HOPE    LANDS,   AND    THEIR   LEGENDS. 

THAT  the  old  Royall  house  was  haunted  had  long  been  a  legend  in  the 
Mount  Hope  lands.  Nearly  all  of  the  old  houses  in  this  part  of  New  England 
were  haunted,  or  supposed  to  be.  A  house  without  its  ghost  lore  would  have 
been  regarded  in  old  colony  days  as  a  place  of  but  little  interest.  Did  not  evil 
spirits  tempt  all  good  people,  and  frighten  all  wrong-doers?  And  what  a  color- 
less family  that  must  have  been  to  have  been  wholly  neglected  by  the  ghost- 
world  !  All  old  women  had  their  ghost-stories,  and  not  a  few  claimed  that  the 
"  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air  "  had  made  them,  or  some  of  their  antique 
relatives,  a  special  visit.  There  seems  to  have  been  few  good  spirits  in  those 
lively  and  dramatic  old  times.  The  Puritan  imagination  had  no  fairy-land,  or 
Hebraic  or  mediaeval  angels.  The  telling  of  ghost-stories  to  children  was  held 
to  be  a  very  wholesome  and  pious  occupation,  but  the  relation  of  fairy  tales 
would  have  been  a  sin.  No  historian  has  overdrawn  these  colonial  supersti- 
tions. Witches  walked  the  air,  the  dead  did  not  sleep  well  nights,  but  were 
ever  getting  up  out  of  their  graves  and  returning  to  their  old  places  to  warn 
the  living.  The  spirit-world  of  darkness  was  an  ever-present  reality,  a  nightly 
terror,  and  there  were  no  angel  chariots  in  the  clouds,  nor  angel  feet  in  the  ways 
of  sorrow  and  death.  New  England  was  a  goblin-land.  Going  to  bed  in  some 
distant  chamber  in  an  old  oak  house  was  a  specially  perilous  journey  for  the 
young  Puritan  to  make  ;  one  could  never  tell  whether  one's  dead  grandfather 
was  in  his  grave  at  that  hour  or  not.  Young  folks  with  disturbed  consciences 
went  to  bed  with  alacrity,  and  drew  the  sheets  over  their  heads  quickly,  in  Cotton 
Mather's  day. 

The  Mount  Hope  lands  !  How  beautiful  they  were  and  are !  But  the  old 
houses  on  them  were  filled  with  dark  superstitions.  This  is  not  strange,  for  the 
Mount  Hope  lands  had  been  the  fields  of  great  events.  Few  places  in  America 
had  such  a  romantic  history. 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO   TAKE  HOME.  263 

"  Here  once  red  warriors  were  wont  to  assemble, 

Here  lurid  and  ghostly  their  council  fires  shone, 
Here  the  word  of  the  chief  made  the  ancient  tribes  tremble, 
And  the  war-whoop  rung  out  from  Pometacom's  throne. 

"  Gone,  gone  are  the  tribes  from  the  scenes  that  they  cherished, 

The  forests  no  longer  encompass  the  tide, 
The  happy  flocks  sleep  where  Pometacom  perished, 
And  wanders  the  heron  where  Wetamoo  died. 

"  And  here  on  this  ocean  mound  silently  lying, 

Where  tidal  waves  falling  the  far  seas  intone, 
Where  the  sail  on  the  bay  like  the  osprey  is  flying, 
The  olden  tribes  rest  from  their  warfare  unknown. 

''The  mild  air  of  spring-time  embeds  them  in  flowers, 

The  orioles  here  from  the  tropics  return, 
The  grain  ripens  on  them  in  midsummer's  hours, 
And  mellowing  falls  by  the  river  sides  burn." 

If  the  archaeologists  may  be  trusted,  here  came  Leif  Ericson  in  A.  D.  1000, 
and  wintered  in  Mount  Hope  Bay.  A  rock  is  still  shown  at  a  place  called  the 
Narrows,  on  which  is  a  partly  effaced  inscription,  which  is  claimed  to  have 
been  made  by  the  Northmen.  On  the  Mount  Hope  lands,  it  is  probable,  was 
the  first  temporary  settlement  ever  made  in  the  territory  which  is  now  the 
United  States.  This  was  nearly  five  hundred  years  before  the  Columbian 
discovery.  Here  lived  Massasoit,  whose  great  heart  protected  the  infant 
colony  of  Plymouth  for  forty  or  more  years.  Massasoit  was  a  poet  by  nature  ; 
he  loved  inspiring  scenery,  and  he  made  the  glacier-carved  slope  of  land  over- 
hanging these  bright  waterways  to  the  sea  his  royal  seat.  On  this  neck  of 
land,  between  the  Narragansett  and  the  Mount  Hope  bays,  were  his  three 
royal  villages,  or  places  of  lodges,  each  hard  by  a  living  spring  of  water.  There 
was  passed  the  boyhood  of  Alexander  (Wamsutta)  and  King  Philip  (Pometa- 
com). Here  the  forests  were  full  of  game,  the  shores  of  shell-fish,  and  the  bays 
were  rich  fishing-fields  for  the  white  and  airy  birch  canoes.  There  came  young 
John  Hampden,  the  English  patriot  and  commoner,  already  inspired  to  defend 
popular  rights  against  kingly  power.  He  made  the  visit  with  Edward  Winslow, 
and  found  Massasoit  at  Sowams  (now  Warren,  Rhode  Island),  one  of  the  three 
royal  villages.  The  chief  was  sick,  and  Hampden  helped  make  broth  for  him, 
and  to  nurse  him,  and  under  his  and  Winslow's  care  the  old  chief  recovered  ; 
and  it  was  Indian  gratitude  for  the  kindly  offices  of  these  two  wonderful  men 
that  made  him  a  lifelong  friend  to  the  growing  colonies.  The  scene  of  John 


264  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Hampden  in  the  lodge  of  Massasoit  by  the  living  spring  of  Sowarns,  which  may 
still  be  seen  close  to  the  Warren  River,  is  worthy  of  a  poet  or  painter.  May  it 
one  day  find  both !  Here  Captain  Kidd,  of  ballad  fame,  was  supposed  to  have 
hidden  treasure.  Here  came  Roger  Williams,  in  exile,  and  met  in  the  lodge 
of  Massasoit — what  he  had  not  found  at  Salem — the  spirit  of  a  Christian 
hospitality.  It  was  here  his  mind  was  active  in  evolving  the  great  principles 
of  religious  liberty  that  have  emancipated  the  human  conscience  from  the  rule 
of  state  throughout  the  world.  There  should  be  a  monument  to  Massasoit  on 
the  Mount  Hope  lands  ;  no  chieftain  ever  better  deserved  a  shaft  of  fame. 
Here  were  King  Philip's  war-dances,  and  here  the  romantic  Wetamoo  came  to 
attend  them,  crossing  the  starlit  bay  in  her  white  canoe.  Here  Philip  was  killed, 
returning  a  fugitive  to  the  ancient  burying-ground  of  his  race,  and  the  warrior- 
queen  Wetamoo  was  drowned,  with  her  heart  in  vain  longing  for  the  beautiful 
hills  that  on  either  side  of  the  bay  met  her  eyes.  Here  Washington  came  to  rest 
in  1793,  and  was  the  guest  of  William  Bradford,  then  a  United  States  Senator, 
who  lived  at  the  Mount.  The  descendants  of  Governor  Bradford  used  to  relate 
how  the  two  statesmen,  clad  in  "  black  velvet,  with  ruffles  about  their  wrists 
and  at  their  bosoms,  and  with  powdered  hair,  promenaded  the  piazza,  and  talked 
together  hour  after  hour." 

Leif  Ericson,  Massasoit,  John  Hampden,  Roger  Williams,  Washington  — 
what  an  array  of  great  names  and  noble  associations  !  We  may  well  claim  that 
there  are  few  spots  on  American  soil  which  are  so  grand  in  historic  events  of 
a  highly  poetic  coloring  as  the  old  Mount  Hope  lands.  As  to  lesser  men,  we 
have  not  space  for  more  than  an  allusion  :  Church,  the  Indian-fighter,  of  cruel 
memory,  the  heroes  of  the  "  Gaspee,"  and  the  old  privateers.  Lafayette  was 
quartered  here,  and  General  Burnside  here  made  his  home  on  the  borders  of 
the  beautiful  hills  after  the  Union  war.  In  the  prosperous  colonial  years  before 
the  Revolution  there  came  to  live  on  the  Mount  Hope  lands  in  summer  some 
grand  families  whom  the  world  has  almost  forgotten.  Among  them  were  the 
Vassals  of  Boston,  and  the  Roy  alls,  also  rich  Boston  people,  whose  home  was 
at  the  Mount.  These  people  were  royalists,  and  fled  from  the  country  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  and  their  estates  were  confiscated.  The  Mount  Hope 
farm  of  the  Royalls  was  among  the  confiscated  estates.  These  people  fled  to 
the  Windward  Islands.  The  old  Vassal  tomb  may  still  be  seen  in  Cambridge 
churchyard,  Massachusetts,  near  Harvard  College.  Of  course  the  confiscated 
estate  of  the  Royalls  became  haunted  after  the  flight  of  its  stately  owners.  The 
white  ghost  of  Penelope  Royall  is  supposed  never  to  have  left  the  romantic 
farms,  but  to  have  remained  to  terrify  whomsoever  might  live  upon  these 
enchanted  regions  of  the  rightful  territories  of  good  King  George.  In  her 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE   FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME. 


JAPANESE    HO-O-DEN. 

happy  days  this  queenly  woman  used  to  ride  in  her  high  chariot  through 
Bristol,  greatly  to  the  admiration  of  the  Wardwells,  the  Bosworths,  the  Glad- 
dings,  the  Churches,  the  Byfields,  and  the  well-to-do  townspeople  of  the  cool 
old  port.  The  white  sail  that  bore  the  Royalls  drifted  over  the  tropic  seas,  but 
not  in  imagination  the  ghostly  form  and  robes  of  Penelope  Royall.  They  stayed 
to  affright  the  rebels,  and  to  uphold  the  rights  and  the  dignities  of  the  Crown. 
All  disloyal  Bristol  could  not  arrest  the  spirit  of  Penelope,  which  seems  to  have 
delighted  in  the  freedom  denied  to  the  royalists  in  the  flesh.  She  was  a  maiden 
lady,  and  a  more  stately  person  than  either  Anna  or  Priscilla  Royall,  the  old 
royalist's  first  and  second  wives.  She  loved  the  Mount  Hope  lands,  and 
especially  Mount  Hope,  and  used  often  to  visit  the  white  ridge  overlooking  the 
bays,  and  gaze  over  the  glittering  waterways  and  the  green  expanse  of  Rhode 


266  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  hV    THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Island,  where  Bishop  Berkeley  is  said  to  have  made  his  immortal  prophecy. 
She  died  in  the  old  house,  and  was  buried  near  it. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  the  last  century  that  Prudence  Wardwell,  a  rich 
spinster,  came  to  live  on  the  old  Royall  farm  on  the  Mount  Hope  lands.  The 
house  which  she  occupied  was  noted  for  its  great  chimney.  All  the  old  Bristol 
houses  had  enormous  chimneys  with  great  fireplaces.  One  of  these  chimneys, 
it  has  been  said,  would  furnish  sufficient  material  to  build  a  modern  cottage. 
Several  of  them  once  stood  like  monuments,  after  the  houses  they  had  warmed 
were  gone;  and  cattle,  in  the  winter,  would  sometimes  find  a  shelter  in  their 
giant  fireplaces. 

Prudence  Wardwell — "Aunt  Prudence,"  as  she  was  known — brought  to 
the  great  oak  mansion  a  bound  boy  by  the  name  of  Peter  Fayerweather.  It  had 
been  her  wish  to  live  as  nearly  alone  as  possible,  with  but  a  single  protector, 
and  for  this  solitary  guardian  and  sentinel  she  had  chosen  Peter.  He  was  a 
tall,  awkward  lad,  with  great  eyes  and  a  shambling  gait  ;  but  Aunt  Prudence 
believed  him  to  be  honest,  and  she  did  not  want  a  "  handsome  man  "  on  the 
place.  Peter  was  not  handsome.  Peter  had  objected  to  going  to  the  Mount  on 
account  of  the  ghost  folk  there.  His  large  eyes  and  large  ears  seemed  to  grow 
as  he  listened  to  the  old  tales  of  superstition.  He  had  heard  again  and  again 
with  terror  the  awful  tale  of  Captain  Kidd :  how  that  recreant  son  of  the  old 
Scottish  minister  and  martyr  had  gone  forth  on  the  high  seas  to  destroy  pirates, 
and  had  turned  pirate  himself  ;  how  he  had  sunk  his  good  father's  Bible  "  in  the 
sand,"  and  had  murdered  William  Moore,  "  as  he  sailed,  as  he  sailed." 

"  And  left  him  in  liis  gore, 
As  he  sailed." 

The  old  pirate  was  said  to  come  back  to  the  Mount  Hope  lands  on  still 
moonlight  nights,  to  see  if  any  had  found  his  buried  treasures.  None  had. 
One  frightened  Bristoller  had  met  the  old  captain  carrying  his  head  like  a 
bundle  under  his  arm.  The  old  pirate  was  evidently  in  a  hurry;  if  not,  the 
good  man  who  met  him  most  certainly  was  after  the  strange  vision. 

Peter  Fayerweather  had  no  wish  to  see  stately  Penelope  Royall  or  dark- 
visaged  Captain  Kidd  on  moonlit  nights,  or  any  other  nights,  or  any  ghost 
folks  who  did  such  odd  things  as  to  take  off  their  heads  and  carry  them  under 
their  arms.  So,  of  all  places,  he  begged  Aunt  Prudence  not  to  take  him  to  the 
solemn  and  lonely  old  oak  house  on  the  Mount.  But  Aunt  Prudence  did  not 
fear  ghosts.  She  "  trusted  in  the  Lord,"  as  she  said,  against  any  wandering 
visitors  from  another  world.  She  was  afraid  of  robbers,  and  it  was  on  this 
account  that  she  had  secured  the  protective  services  of  the  giant  Peter,  who 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME.  267 

would  have  regarded  a  robber  on  any  dark  night  as  a  most  welcome  friend. 
So  the  two  came  to  the  grand  old  house,  Aunt  Prudence  fearing  only  robbers, 
and  young  Peter  only  ghosts. 

"  If  you  will  protect  me  from  robbers,"  said  the  solitary  old  lady  to  Peter,  on 
the  day  of  their  arrival,  "  I  will  protect  you  from  spirits.  What  do  you  say, 
Peter  ? " 

"  Aunt  Prudence,"  said  Peter,  "  I  do  not  fear  no  mortal  flesh,  true  as 
preachin'.  Look  there,  and  there." 

He  waved  his  great  arms  about  like  a  windmill,  and  swung  them  round  and 
round,  greatly  to  the  old  lady's  admiration. 

"  I  have  great  confidence  in  you,  Peter ;  I  made  a  good  choice  when  I  took 
you,  Peter.  Do  it  again." 

Peter  swung  his  great  arms  again  round  and  round  like  a  wheel.  Aunt 
Prudence's  sense  of  security  became  very  firm. 

"  That  will  do,  Peter.  If  you  should  ever  see  a  ghost,  you  call  me  ;  and  if  I 
should  ever  see  a  man,  I  will  call  you." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  ever  see  a  ghost !  "  said  Peter ;  "  it  would  just 
kill  me  dead,  true  as  preachin'." 

The  summer  passed  ;  the  apples  reddened  in  the  shadowy  orchards,  and  the 
frosts  dropped  the  walnuts  on  the  light  beds  of  crimson  leaves.  The  orioles 
went,  and  the  ospreys.  The  beautiful  Indian  summer  came  and  burned  and 
faded.  November,  the  month  of  shadows,  came,  and  a  coolness  fell  from  the 
steel  sky  over  the  bay,  and  soon  the  light  snow-crystals  began  to  fall.  No 
ghosts  were  seen  in  or  about  the  old  house  ;  no  robbers.  Peter  lost  his  fears, 
and  Aunt  Prudence  became  full  of  confidence,  and  the  two  were  as  happy  as 
such  a  solitary  life  could  make  them.  Aunt  Prudence,  at  least,  seemed  perfectly 
happy  and  contented. 

There  was  in  the  great  chimney  an  odd  receptacle,  once  common  to  such 
chimneys,  but  now  almost  forgotten  even  in  England,  known  as  the  smoke 
chimney.  The  door,  to  it,  which  was  iron,  opened  in  this  old  house  into  one 
of  the  upper  rooms.  The  chamber  consisted  of  iron  bars  on  which  fresh  hams 
were  stored  in  the  fall,  and  through  which  the  smoke  passed  from  one  of  the 
lower  fireplaces.  It  was  in  reality  a  smoke-house  in  the  chimney  ;  a  place  to 
smoke  meats,  in  the  days  when  such  smoked  meats  were  regarded  as  a  greater 
luxury  than  now.  Peter  Fayerweather  had  not  been  slow  to  discover  this 
fortress-like  smoke  chamber.  Peter  was  not  what  would  be  called  bright,  but 
a  bright  idea  illumined  his  dull  face  when  he  first  opened  the  iron  door. 

"  Ghosts  ?  Ghosts  ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  If  I  ever  should  —  I  know  what 
I  would  do  if  I  ever  should  —  Nothing  could  ever  get  through  that  iron  door, 
true  as  preachin'.  If  I  ever  should  —  " 


268  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE    CITY. 

A  part  of  the  predicate  to  Peter's  subjunctive  sentence  was  wanting,  but 
that  a  very  helpful  idea  had  come  to  him  was  evident  from  his  luminous  face. 
He  had  formed  a  very  definite  plan  of  security  "  if  he  ever  should  —  " 

Aunt  Prudence  too,  in  a  careful  survey  of  the  premises,  had  been  struck 
with  the  appearance  of  security  and  seclusion  of  the  old  smoke  chamber.  She 
too  had  examined  it  alone;  and  as  sympathetic  minds  by  a  kind  of  telegraphy 
express  themselves  in  like  phrases,  she  also  said  :  — 

"  If  I  ever  should  -  No  robber  would  think  of  such  a  place  as  that,  any- 
how. I  will  hang  up  a  quilt  over  the  iron  door,  and  if  I  ever  should  —  If 
I  ever  should  —  eh,  well,  if  I  ever  should  —  I  will." 

She  too  turned  away  from  the  dungeon-like  place  with  a  face  full  of  anima- 
tion and  confidence.  Certainly  if  Peter  "ever  should,"  or  if  Aunt  Prudence 
"  ever  should,"  the  old  smoke  chamber  would  be  a  very  desirable  and  con- 
venient seclusion.  Now,  Peter  thought  of  seclusion  only  in  the  case  of  a  ghost, 
and  Aunt  Prudence  only  in  case  that  an  unknown  man  of  very  selfish  propen- 
sities should  "break  into  the  house;"  and  each  evidently  had  received  a  sense 
of  security  on  a  careful  inspection  of  the  old  smoke  chamber.  But  neither  made 
a  confidant  of  what  the  other  would  do  under  certain  alarming  circumstances. 

Peter,  like  most  cowardly  people  who  recover  a  sense  of  security,  became 
suddenly  very  bold.  He  used  to  visit  Bristol  evenings,  and  return  late,  greatly 
to  Aunt  Prudence's  anxiety.  It  was  the  time  of  the  once  famous  Episcopal  and 
Methodist  Episcopal  revivals,  and  Peter  claimed  that  he  went  to  attend  the 
meetings,  which  were  the  exciting  topics  of  the  old  port  and  of  the  State. 
Aunt  Prudence,  who  was  a  strict  Calvinist,  was  not  deeply  in  sympathy  with 
these  phenomenal  meetings,  which  were  called  the  "  New  Light  Stir."  She 
advised  Peter  to  "  read  his  Bible  at  home."  But  he  still  felt  the  necessity  of 
going  elsewhere  for  the  interpretation  of  that  good  book,  and  so,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  he  continued  to  "  follow  up  "  the  meetings. 

Aunt  Prudence's  patience  at  thus  being  left  alone  during  the  long  winter 
evenings  at  last  came  to  an  end. 

"  Peter,"  she  said,  one  morning  after  Peter  had  attended  a  meeting  that  had 
held  very  late,  "  are  you  never  afraid  of  meeting  apparitions  on  your  way  home 
nights  ?  Suppose  you  should  —  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

Peter  thought  of  the  old  smoke  chamber,  but  that  would  not  serve  him  in 
such  a  case.  He  knew  Aunt  Prudence's  purpose  in  making  these  appalling 
suggestions.  He  was  not  a  very  politic  boy,  but  he  was  quite  equal  to  the 
situation  on  this  particular  occasion. 

"  I  would  call  for  you,  Aunt.     You  say  that  you  are  not  afraid  of  'em." 

Aunt  Prudence  felt  flattered,  but  she  still  recalled  amid  her  feeling  of  satis- 
faction that  she  must  not  be  left  alone. 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME.  269 

"  But,  Peter,  I  would  hate  to  see  the  ghost  of  Captain  Kidd,  or  to  see  any 
of  the  old  Indian  apparitions.  Don't  you  know,  Peter,  that  Mount  Hope  is  a 
great  Indian  graveyard  ?  I  would  not  like  to  meet  old  Penelope  Royall  all  in 
white  going  about  in  the  wind  ;  would  you,  Peter  ?  It  would  be  awful  ;  now 
would  n't  it,  Peter  ?  " 

Peter's  great  eyes  and  ears  began  to  grow.  His  old  nervous  fears  were 
coming  back  again,  but  he  still  coveted  the  freedom  of  his  evenings. 

"Aunt,"  he  said  at  last,  very  thoughtfully,  "where  do  you  suppose  old 
Penelope  Royall  went  when  she  died  ? " 

"  To  heaven,  I  hope,  Peter,  even  if  she  was  a  royalist." 

"  Then  why  don't  she  stay  there  ?  What  would  she  want  to  be  wanderin* 
about  in  the  wind  in  cold  nights  for  ? " 

"  For  vengeance,"  said  Aunt,  in  an  annoyed  tone. 

"  For  vengeance  ?  "  said  Peter.  "  I  should  n't  think  a  woman  after  she  had 
gone  to  heaven  would  have  any  more  wicked  feelings  like  that.  I  don't  believe 
she  wanders  about  in  the  wind  with  thin  clothes  on  anyway.  Now  say,  do  you, 
Aunt  ?  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  They  dress  comfortable  up  there.  It  don't 
stand  to  reason,  true  as  preachin' ;  now  does  it?" 

Aunt  felt  the  force  of  Peter's  argument.  In  fact,  Peter  was  expressing  her 
own  firm  convictions  about  such  matters. 

"  But  Captain  Kidd,  Peter,  he  was  a  dreadful  man  ;  I  don't  think  he  has 
gone  to  heaven." 

"  Where  did  he  go,  Aunt  ?  " 

Aunt  Prudence  replied  with  spirit  and  emphasis, — 

"  He  went,  Peter,  where  all  wicked  people  go, — to  the  kingdom  of  dark- 
ness, where  he  is  shut  up  for  ever  and  ever.  There  now !  " 

Aunt  Prudence  was  "  clearing  away  the  table,"  as  she  called  her  morning 
work,  when  she  uttered  these  startling  and  decisive  words.  She  looked  steadily 
at  Peter,  and  felt  that  she  had  answered  him  and  silenced  him.  She  felt  a  kind 
of  triumph  in  the  pause  that  followed,  and  lifted  her  spectacles  as  though  to  say, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

44  But,  Aunt  Prudence  —  " 

"  But  what,  Peter  ?     This  is  a  very  alarming  subject." 

;<  But  who  let  him  out  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Peter,  Peter !  You  are  becoming  an  awful  boy.  I  always  knew  that 
those  Methodist  free  salvation  meetings  would  do  you  no  good.  You  go  right 
out  to  the  wood-pile,  and  bring  me  in  an  armful  of  wood.  You  have  no  sense 
of  theology,  anyway.  You  are  a  poor  daft  fellow.  '  Who  let  him  out  ?  '  Did 
I  ever !  " 


270  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Peter  went  out,  muttering  that  he  did  n't  "  see  how  people  can  be  shut  up 
forever  in  another  world,  and  be  wandering  about  this  world  at  the  same  time. 
It  don't  stand  to  reason,  nohow,  true  as  preachin'." 

But  although  Peter's  reasoning  seemed  convincing,  it  did  not  quiet  his 
superstitious  fears.  Whenever  his  conscience  became  a  little  disturbed,  the 
picture  of  tall  Penelope  Royall  wandering  about  in  the  wind  "all  in  white" 
was  before  him.  Even  grim  old  Captain  Kidd  was  not  such  an  alarming  object 
to  his  fancy  as  that.  Captain  Kidd  was  a  man,  and  he  felt  sure  that  he  would 
let  him  alone,  if  he  did  not  trouble  the  buried  treasure,  but  old  Penelope  Royall 
a  woman. 


The  Mount  Hope  lands  were  full  of  Indian  stories,  which  were  founded  on 
tricks,  and  even  worse  stories  of  those  whose  wits  cheated  the  devil  out  of 
his  dues,  when  their  grasping  souls  had  bargained  with  the  latter.  Peter 
thought  of  these.  There  was  one  story  that  suggested  to  him  that  wit  is  equal 
to  most  conditions  of  life.  It  was  a  red  settle  story,  but  became  a  poem  :  — 

"  Among  Rhode  Island's  early  sons 

Was  one  whose  orchards  fair 
By  plenteous  and  well-flavored  fruit, 
Rewarded  all  his  care. 

"  For  household  use  they  stored  the  best, 

And  all  the  rest,  conveyed 
To  neighboring  mill,  were  ground  and  pressed 
And  into  cider  made. 

"The  wandering  Indian  oft  partook 

The  generous  farmer's  cheer  ; 
He  liked  his  food,  but  better  still 
His  cider  fine  and  clear. 

"  And  as  he  quaffed  the  pleasant  draught 

The  kitchen  fire  before, 
He  longed  for  some  to  carry  home, 
And  asked  for  more  and  more. 

"  The  farmer  saw  a  basket  new, 

Beside  the  Indian  bold, 
And  smiling  said,  '  I  Ml  give  to  you 
As  much  as  that  will  hold.' 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME. 

"  Both  laughed,  for  how  could  liquid  thing 

Within  a  basket  stay  ? 
But  yet,  the  jest  unanswering, 
The  Indian  went  his  way. 

"  When  next  from  rest  the  farmers  sprung 

So  very  cold  the  morn, 
The  icicles  like  diamonds  hung 
On  every  eping  and  thorn. 

"  The  brook  that  babbled  by  his  door 
Was  deep,  and  clear,  and  strong, 
And  yet  unfettered  by  the  frost, 
Leaped  merrily  along. 

"  The  self-same  Indian  by  this  brook 

The  astonished  farmer  sees  ; 
He  laid  his  basket  in  the  stream, 
Then  hung  it  up  to  freeze. 

"  And  by  this  process  oft  renewed, 

The  basket  soon  became 
A  well-glazed  vessel,  tight  and  good, 
Of  most  capacious  frame. 

"  The  door  he  entered  speedily, 

And  claimed  the  promised  boon  ; 
The  farmer  laughed  heartily, 
Fulfilled  his  promise  soon. 

"  Up  to  the  basket's  brim  he  saw 

The  sparkling  cider  rise, 
And  to  rejoice  his  absent  squaw. 
He  bore  away  the  prize. 

"  Long  lived  the  good  man  at  the  farm, 

The  house  is  standing  still, 
And  still  leaps  merrily  along 
The  much  diminished  rill. 

"  And  his  descendants  still  remain, 

And  tell  to  those  who  ask  it. 

The  story  they  have  often  heard 

About  the  Indian's  basket." 

A  wonderful  reformation  seemed  to  come  over  Peter.  He  began  to  stay  at 
home,  and  go  to  bed  very  early,  often  as  early  as  seven  o'clock,  —  or  at  least  he 
seemed  to  do  these  sober  thinsrs.  Aunt  Prudence  had  srone  to  the  door  of  his 


272  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

room  once  or  twice  after  his  early  retiring,  but  had  found  it  locked,  and  she 
had  been  unable  to  awake  him,  he  "  slept  so  sound."  "  Boys  do,"  she  said. 

"  Peter,"  she  said  one  morning,  "  tell  me  the  truth,  now  ;  did  n't  you  hear 
me  when  I  pounded  and  pounded  on  the  door  last  night?  " 

"  No,  Aunt  Prudence,  true  as  preachin'  I  did  not."     And  he  did  not. 

The  truth  was  that  poor  Peter  had  fallen  from  his  integrity,  even  in  these 
times  of  the  great  revivals.  He  had  discovered  that  the  great  hall  window  was 
as  handy  as  a  door,  and  that  he  had  only  to  leave  it  unfastened  to  return  to  the 
house  at  any  time  of  the  night  without  disturbing  the  sound  slumbers  of  good 
Aunt  Prudence.  He  was  careful  in  taking  this  liberty  to  first  lock  his  own 
room.  These  were  wicked  ways,  it  is  true,  and  very  bold  ones  for  a  quiet 
youth,  and  quite  inconsistent  with  meeting-going  habits.  But  the  meetings  at 
this  period  were  wonderfully  dramatic ;  everybody  talked  about  them,  and 
Peter's  curiosity  quite  overcame  his  moral  sense. 

The  holidays  were  at  hand.  Thanksgiving  was  Aunt  Prudence's  great 
annual  festival,  her  Feast  of  Tabernacles  ;  she  made  little  account  of  Christmas, 
which,  she  told  Peter,  was  a  mere  "  relic  of  the  Pope  and  the  Dragon,"  and 
which  he  associated  with  an  old  picture  in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

Watch  Night  was  the  great  annual  occasion  of  the  old  Bristol  Methodists. 
It  took  place  on  New  Year's  Eve,  when  a  great  assembly  used  to  meet  to  sing 
the  old  Wesleyan  Watch  Night  hymns,  written  by  Wesley  for  the  Old  London 
Foundry,  and  to  watch  "  the  old  year  out  and  the  new  year  in."  The  services 
of  the  Presiding  Elder  were  sometimes  secured  for  this  memorable  night,  and  if 
so,  a  "  Love  Feast "  was  held,  and  a  multitude  told  their  experiences,  amid 
triumphant  responses,  ecstatic  refrains,  and  sometimes  strange  exhibitions  of 
trance,  or  of  "  losing  one's  strength,"  as  the  old  phenomena  were  called. 

Christmas  was  the  Episcopal  festival,  and  the  Episcopal  Church  in  Bristol 
was  unlike  any  other  at  that  time.  It  followed  the  revival  methods  of  White- 
field  and  Lady  Huntingdon.  Christmas  Eve  was  an  occasion  of  universal 
charity.  The  poor  were  the  guests  of  the  church,  and  were  entertained  like 
princes.  Peter  well  understood  all  these  festivals,  and  he  resolved  to  attend  them 
all, — the  old  Orthodox  church's  Thanksgiving,  the  Episcopal  festival,  and  the 
Methodists'  solemn  jubilee  on  New  Year's  Eve.  There  was  nothing  sectarian 
about  him.  It  was  also  his  intention  not  to  disturb  the  mind  of  Aunt  Prudence 
about  these  matters,  —  the  easy  hall  window  would  make  it  unnecessary. 

Thanksgiving  passed — it  fell  late  this  year;  December  came  in  mildly,  as 
though  the  bright  days  were  loath  to  go.  The  stillness  before  the  winter 
storms  filled  the  air.  The  withered  grasses  were  silent  now,  without  the  voice 
of  insect  or  bird.  A  white  gull  sometimes  cleaved  the  still  gray  air,  and  the 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND   TO   TAKE  HOME.  275 

wild  cry  of  the  shore  birds  was  sometimes  heard.  The  nights  were  silvery  and 
cold.  The  Mount  Hope  Bay  and  the  Pocassett  Hills  in  the  frosty  moonlight 
recalled  the  silence  and  melancholy  fate  of  that  ancient  race  which  slumbered 
in  the  browned  fields,  Pometacom's  cliff  and  spring.  The  night  air  seemed 
peopled  with  shadows  of  painted  chiefs  and  spectral  armies  forever  gone.  The 
river  weeds  were  dead,  and  encased  in  a  thin  sheet  of  ice  in  the  early  mornings. 
Brown  leaves  still  hung  on  the  oaks,  and  red  leaves  of  ivy  on  the  long  walls. 
Husking  was  over,  and  the  yellow  cones  of  the  stalks  of  corn  fodder  glimmered 
on  every  farm.  The  fishing-boats  were  hauled  upon  the  shore  ;  everything  — 
the  sky,  the  blue  bay,  the  fields,  the  working-men  —  seemed  waiting  for  the 
coming  of  winter.  The  mild  days  grew  shorter  and  shorter  ;  the  tall  candles 
burned  lower  and  lower  each  evening  ;  the  nights  were  glorious,  and  Christmas 
Eve  came,  rung  in  by  the  resonant  bell  of  good  St.  Michael's. 

Aunt  Prudence  had  resolved  to  depart  from  the  Orthodox  customs  on  this 
special  year,  and  to  make  Peter  a  Christmas  present.  "  He  has  become  such 
a  good  boy  of  late,"  she  reasoned,  "  and  so  steady.  Every  one  else  is  giving 
presents,  and  he  ought  to  be  rewarded."  She  planned  to  fill  a  bag  with  good 
things  for  him,  after  the  manner  of  the  bountiful  bag,  and  to  hang  it  on  his 
bedroom  door  on  Christmas  Eve.  He  would,  as  she  thought,  find  it  in  the 
morning,  and  it  would  be  a  great  surprise  to  him.  It  certainly  would.  She 
made  the  bag,  purchased  some  sweetmeats  for  it,  and  began  to  fill  it  with  useful 
articles.  She  knit  for  it  a  "  comforter,"  as  a  neck-scarf  was  called,  several  pairs 
of  stockings,  some  "  galluses,"  and  secured  for  it  various  other  useful  things, 
among  them  "  Hervey's  Meditations,"  "  Young's  Night  Thoughts,"  and  "  The 
Fool  of  Quality,"  all  famous  books  in  those  sober  days,  and  "  good  readin'." 

When  the  bag  was  nearly  full  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  ought  to  knit  for  it 
a  pair  of  mittens.  This  happy  thought,  however,  did  not  occur  to  her  until  the 
day  before  Christmas.  Aunt  Prudence  was  a  rapid  knitter.  The  needles  flew 
under  her  skilled  fingers  so  swiftly  as  to  look  like  mere  glimmers.  "  I  can 
finish  the  mittens  before  eleven  o'clock  to-night,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  then 
the  bag  will  be  all  complete.  I  had  as  lief  sit  up  late  to-night  as  not,  the  nights 
are  so  long  now." 

Peter  retired  early  that  evening 

"Going? "  said  Aunt  Prudence  as  he  left  the  room  with  his  candle.  "  You 
seem  dreadful  sleepy  of  late.  Well,  that 's  all  right,  I  suppose.  Boys  do  when 
they  're  growing.  Don't  forget  to  say  your  prayers,  Peter.  You  Ve  a  great 
deal  to  be  thankful  for.  Good-night,  Peter.  The  Lord  bless  ye !  " 

Peter  closed  the  door  on  receiving  this  serene  benediction. 

"  He  's   such  a  steady   boy  ! "   said   the  geod  woman,  as  she  resumed   her 


276  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

knitting.  "  He  sha'  n't  lose  anything  by  it,  either.  Any  boy  will  be  steady  if 
he  is  brought  up  right.  There  's  the  trouble,  people  do  not  bring  their  children 
up  right."  Her  needles  flew.  It  was  inspiring  to  recall  her  great  success  in 
training  Peter. 

It  was  a  still  night.  There  was  a  faint  moon,  and  the  stars  glimmered  thick 
in  the  cloudless  sky.  Aunt  Prudence  looked  out  of  the  window  at  times,  saw 
the  still  fields  and  bare  trees,  and  thought  of  the  past.  The  Mount  seemed 
haunted —  it  always  does  on  calm  winter  nights.  Not  by  Leif,  or  Kidd,  or  the 
Roy  alls,  or  by  Indian  fighters,  or  Revolutionary  heroes,  or  statesmen,  but  by 
that  vanished  and  mysterious  race  whose  forest  capital  was  here,  and  whose 
arrow-heads  still  fill  the  fields  and  sand. 

At  nine  the  old  Bristol  bell  rang  out  on  the  clear  air. 

"  I  shall  have  the  work  all  done  by  ten,"  said  Aunt  Prudence,  and  her  needles 
flew  again.  She  was  very  happy.  She  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
for  the  tenth  time  —  ghost-land. 

The  hands  on  the  old  English  clock  pointed  to  ten.  The  work  was  done, 
and  Aunt  Prudence  drew  the  top  of  the  bag  together,  and  pinned  upon  the  tape 
handle  a  sheet  of  paper,  on  which  was  written, 

"  PETER  FAYERWEATHER,  a  Present." 

It  was  half-past  ten  before  Aunt  Prudence  opened  the  door  to  go  with  the 
bag  bountiful  to  the  door  of  Peter's  room.  As  she  did  so  she  thought  that 
she  heard  a  noise  in  the  hall.  She  stepped  back  and  listened  with  a  beating 
heart.  She  surely  heard  the  hall  window  close,  and  a  careful  step  in  the  hall. 
Her  heart  bounded,  and  she  gasped  for  breath  ;  she  had  long  had  a  presentiment 
of  this  danger. 

She  locked  her  door  at  once,  withdrew  the  key,  and  kneeled  down  on  the 
rug  and  looked  through  the  key-hole  very  cautiously.  There  was  only  a  faint 
moon  and  star  light  in  the  hall,  but  she  saw  the  shadow  of  a  tall  man  pass,  and 
heard  a  dull  step  move  in  the  direction  of  Peter's  room.  Her  house  had  been 
entered,  surely  ;  the  expected  event  had  really  come.  What  should  she  do  ? 

She  stepped  into  her  bedroom,  which  opened  out  of  her  sitting-room, 
where  she  had  been  knitting,  and  sunk  down  upon  the  white  bed,  and  drew  the 
bed-curtains.  She  would  have  groaned,  but  she  dared  not.  Here  she  lay  and 
trembled  till  the  old  clock  struck  eleven,  the  strokes  sounding  like  a  warning 
through  the  hollow  rooms. 

She  must  alarm  Peter.  How?  Suppose  she  were  to  meet  the  robber  in 
the  hall  ?  Her  nervous  system  was  so  shaken  that  she  felt  that  she  could  not 
be  quiet  any  longer.  She  must  do  something,  at  any  event.  She  arose,  put 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME. 


277 


aside  the  bed-curtains,  drew  from  the  bed  the  white  counterpane,  put  it  over 
her  head  like  a  great  shawl,  wrapped  it  around  her,  and  going  into  the  sitting- 
room,  took  the  almost  extinct  candle,  and  unlocked  the  door  and  stepped 
cautiously  into  the  hall.  If  ever  a  mortal  looked  like  the  traditional  spectre, 
Aunt  Prudence  did  then. 


CEYLON    BUILDING. 


The  hall  was  empty;  all  was   still.     The  grim   old  portraits  were  there  — 
like  shadow  people  they  were  all. 

She  left  the  sitting-room  door  open,  and  moved  silently  and  cautiously  along 
toward  Peter's  room.  She  tried  Peter's  door.  A  great  sense  of  relief  came  to 
her  ;  it  was  unlocked.  She  opened  it  slowly,  but  a  draught  blew  out  the  light. 
Terrified  at  this,  she  glided  to  Peter's  bed  and  seized  the  boy  by  the  hair, 
gasping,  "  Peter,  Peter,  there 's  a  man  in  the  house  !  Get  up,  get  up  !  there  's 


278  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

a  man  in  the  house  ! "  She  shook  him  with  a  nervous  energy,  and  repeated  in 
stage-like  whispers  the  words.  She  then  vanished  out  of  the  room. 

Peter  awoke  at  the  first  touch  of  the  rude  hand,  and  his  heart  seemed  to 
stop,  and  his  blood  to  turn  to  frozen  streams,  as  he  saw  an  awful  white  spectre 
standing  over  his  bed,  and  felt  its  bony  fingers  in  his  hair.  Penelope  flashed 
upon  him.  It  surely  was  the  ghost  of  Penelope ;  she  had  got  away  from  the 
other  world  this  time,  surely,  despite  his  reason  and  philosophy.  He  looked 
around  wildly,  saw  the  shadow  of  the  old  ox-saddle  that  adorned  this  room  as 
a  curiosity,  —  and  Penelope,  awful  Penelope. 

Penelope's  final  shake  of  his  great  shoulders  nearly  put  a  period  to  his 
unromantic  history.  A  chill  like  death  came  over  him,  and  he  fully  believed 
that  his  last  moments  had  come.  The  gasped  words,  "  There  's  a  man  in  the 
house  —  get  up  !  "  were  something  of  a  relief.  "  A  man  !  "  If  he  would  only 
appear!  Then  he  beheld  the  unearthly  white  figure  vanish  through  the  door. 
It  surely  was  Penelope.  She  had  gone  ;  and  oh,  if  the  man,  if  any  man,  would 
come  ! 

He  lay  petrified  for  a  moment,  and  then  thought  of  the  old  smoke  chamber. 
His  decision  was  immediate.  He  leaped  up,  drew  the  dark  patchwork  cover- 
lid around  him,  and  darted  upstairs.  Past  loom,  hatchel,  and  spinning-wheel, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  iron  door,  leaped  into  the  smoke  chamber,  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  and  sank  down  in  a  heap,  with  a  most  decided  resolution  to 
leave  the  house  in  the  morning  forever,  "  true  as  preachin'."  He  drew  the 
industrial  coverlid  around  him,  leaving  only  an  opening  for  his  eyes. 

Aunt  Prudence  went  back  to  her  room,  and  locked  the  door  tremblingly, 
and  waited  for  Peter's  step.  But  no  Peter  came.  Her  suspense  grew  unbear- 
able again.  Suddenly  she  too  thought  of  the  old  smoke  chamber,  and  drawing 
her  ghostly  robe  again  around  her,  she  went  into  the  hall,  and  silently  and  very 
cautiously  made  her  dark  way  up  the  stairs.  She  too,  past  loom,  hatchel,  and 
spinning-wheel,  found  her  way  to  the  iron  door,  and  pulling  it  open,  prepared  to 
enter  the  dark  grated  chamber. 

If  ever  a  mind  was  supped  full  of  horror,  it  was  Peter's  when  he  heard  a 
noise  at  the  iron  door,  and  beheld  the  supposed  ghost  of  Penelope  Royall,  tall 
and  avengeful,  standing  before  him.  He  uttered  a  pitiful  shriek,  slid  through 
the  iron  bars,  and  dropped  down  the  chimney  into  the  fireplace.  There  he 
recovered  himself  at  once,  leaped  up  with  a  bound,  fled  from  the  house,  and 
almost  flew  toward  the  town. 

But  Aunt  Prudence  ?  Shocked  6n  finding  the  supposed  robber  in  the  old 
smoke  chamber,  she  too  fled  precipitately  for  the  outside  door,  turning  over  the 


WHAT  MR.  MARLOWE  FOUND    TO    TAKE  HOME.  279 

spinning-wheel  in  her  flight.     Once  into  the  open  air,  she  made  equal  speed 
toward  the  slumbering  village. 

She  did  not  see  the  form  of  Peter  in  advance  of  her ;  but  he  paused  a 
moment  for  breath,  and  saw  the  supposed  form  of  Penelope  pursuing  him,  "  all 
in  white."  It  stimulated  his  resolution  to  gain  the  town.  It  was  a  mile  or 
more  from  the  Mount  Hope  farms  to  the  old  village,  and  Peter  fleeing  from  the 
ghost,  and  Aunt  Prudence  from  the  robber,  went  over  this  distance  in  a  very 
brief  part  of  the  midnight  hour. 

"  The  Bristol  clock  struck  the  hour  of  twelve.  An  out-of-town  Christmas 
Eve  party  were  returning  home  at  this  late  hour  on  foot,  and  on  the  skirts  of 
the  village  were  surprised  by  Peter,  wrapped  in  his  odd  blanket.  The  merry- 
makers knew  him  well,  laughed,  and  plied  him  with  questions. 

"  The  ghost  ! "  he  shrieked,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  his  voice,  and 
pointed  to  the  hill.  "  Penelope !  " 

The  astonished  young  people  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  Peter  had 
pointed.  There  surely  was  a  tall  white  form  that  seemed  to  have  wings  and  to 
come  half  flying  toward  them  through  the  air.  They  had  heard  of  such  things, 
but  had  never  seen  one  before.  Had  they  numbered  but  two  or  three,  they 
would  have  fled  ;  but  there  were  some  ten  or  twelve  in  the  party,  and  they 
waited  the  coming  of  the  strange  apparition. 

"  'T  is  me  she  's  after  —  Penelope  —  't  is  me,"  screamed  Peter.  "  The  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  me  !  My  time  is  come  now,  true  as  preachin'." 

The  white  figure  was  soon  before  them.  It  no  sooner  reached  the  place 
than  it  sunk  down  upon  the  earth. 

"  Take  me  home  with  you  ;  there 's  a  robber  in  the  house !  " 

A  ghost  and  a  robber ! 

"  It's  Aunt  Prudence  Wardwell,"  said  one  of  the  young  men,  after  a  pause, 
on  hearing  such  a  midnight  tale.  "  Why,  Aunt  Prudence,  what  is  the 
matter  ? " 

"Protect  me — take  me  home,  somewhere.  Oh,  there's  a  robber  in  the 
house,  —  a  robber  !  " 

"  Here 's  Peter,"  said  the  young  man.     "  I  thought  he  lived  with  you." 

"  Peter?"  gasped  the  woman  all  in  white. 

"  Yes.     Here,  Peter,  what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  thought,  oh,  I  thought,  Aunt  Prudence,  that  you  was  a  ghost.  I 
did,  true  as  preachin'." 

"How  did  you  get  here,  Peter?  Oh,  there's  a  robber  in  the  house.  Did 
you  hear  me  when  I  called  you  ?  I  saw  him  enter  by  the  window,  —  saw  him 


280  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

with  my  own  eyes,  Peter.  He 's  hid  in  the  old  smoke  chamber.  Oh,  Peter, 
where  shall  we  go,  oh  !  oh !  " 

It  was  all  clear  to  Peter  now,  painfully  clear;  the  cloud  had  lifted. 

"  It  was  me,  Aunty." 

What  ?     Aunt  Prudence's  tall  form  rose  slowly. 

"  It  was  me  who  got  into  the  house  by  the  window." 

"  You  ?  " 

"Yes  —  I  must  confess  —  I  run  away  and  went  to  the  town  to  the  festival. 
I  did  —  I  must  confess  —  true  as  preachin'." 

"  You  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  Peter,  let 's  go  home.  What  two  dreadful-looking  objects  we  are  ! 
I  ain't  afraid  of  ghosts." 

"And  I  ain't  afraid  of  no  robbers,  nor  no  such.  What  a  time  we've  made 
of  it !  —  and  the  folks  will  all  laugh  at  us  too.  Let 's  go  home.  That 's  the 
place  for  us,  true  as  preachin'." 

The  Robber  and  Ghost,  two  spectral  figures,  departed,  with  a  great  sense  of 
relief,  but  with  many  reserved  opinions.  Peter  never  received  the  present  of 
the  bountiful  bag,  but  neither  ghosts  nor  robbers  were  ever  known  to  trouble 
the  Royall  house  again.  It  became  a  very  quiet  place,  and  Peter  Fayervveather 
settled  down  there  to  his  pastoral  and  domestic  duties,  and  really  fulfilled  Aun', 
Prudence's  hopes  of  him,  his  thrifty  farming  doing  real  credit  to  the  beautiful 
and  historic  Mount  Hope  Lands.1 

1  Originally  published  in  Harper's  Weekly. 


MANUFACTURES    BUILDING. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    FOLK-LORE   MEETINGS   AT   THE   ART   PALACE. 

MONG    the     things     that    especially    interested    the 
Marlowes   in   the   Manufacturing  and    Liberal   Arts 

*_> 

Building,  was  the  German    Exhibition  of  toys,  and 
the   Hans  Christian   Anderson  room,  in  the  Danish 
department.     The  Liberal  Arts  Building  seemed  to 
be   the   representative   world,   the   exhibition   of    the 
very  best  that  the  human  mind  can  accomplish   under  a  single  roof. 
"  The  birds  fly  about  over  these  forty  acres,"  said  young  Ephraim 
Marlowe,  "and  do  not  know  that  they  are  not  out  of  doors." 

"  The  building  is  a  prairie  covered  with  glass,  so  it  seems  to  me," 
said  Mr.  Marlowe.     "  How  bright  and  beautiful  !     Listen  ! " 

As  he  spoke  there  fell  upon  the  acres  of  industrial  art  the  music  of 
the  chimes. 

Our  trio  in  their  journeys  often   rested  in  the   Building  of  Public 
Comfort,  and  at  times  on  the  wide,  cool  porticos  and  verandas  of   the 


282 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 


Woman's  Building.     They  sometimes  went  for  coffee  to  the  Brazilian 
Garden,  or  to  the  Cafes  of  Costa  Rica  and  Venezuela. 

The   Children's   Building   was   always   a  charm.     A   house   to   be 
delightful  must  have  a  generous  and  sympathetic  soul,  and  this  the 

Children's  Building  had  in  Mrs.  Clara 
Doty  Bates,  to  whom  this  department 
largely  owed  its  successful  evolution. 
Mrs.  Bates'  own  room  was  filled  with 
portraits  of  children's  authors,  and  the 
best  books  for  the  young. 

The  Folk-Lore  Societies  held  their 
meetings  in  the  Art  Palace,  in  the  city,, 
where  the  Auxiliary  Congresses  met. 
There  were  many  private  meetings  among 
these  amiable  story-tellers.  In  one  of  the 
twenty-eight  or  more  halls  devoted  to  such 
meetings,  Mr.  Marlowe  related  the  story 
of  "  Waban,"  and  recited  a  legend  asso- 
ciated with  the  arrival  of  the  "Viking." 

During  the  visits  of  the  Marlowes  at 
the  Fair,  there  occurred  one  day  a  very 
tragic  scene.  The  Cold  Storage  Ware- 
house took  fire,  and  some  firemen  were 
sent  up  to  the  top  of  the  high  tower. 
While  they  were  there,  the  flames  burst 
out  around  the  tower  below,  and  they 
saw  that  they  were  doomed. 

One  of  these,  seeing  his  fate,  seemed 

CLOCK    TOWER    IN    THE   MANU- 
FACTURES BUILDING.  to  glory  in   the  thought  that  his  life   was 

to  end  in  sacrifice  for  others.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  lips,  threw  a 
kiss  to  the  awestruck  multitude,  and  thus  parting  with  the  world 
leaped  into  the  flames.  A  man  never  knows  how  noble  he  may  be 


THE   FOLK-LORE   MEETINGS  AT   THE   ART  PALACE. 


283 


till  his  worth  is  put  to  the  test.  Mr.  Marlowe,  the  Quaker,  thought 
that  this  man's  death  was  the  noblest  scene  that  he  saw  at  the  great 
Fair. 

The  Court  of  Honor  at  night  was  a  scene  of  the  new  world  of 
electricity  such  as   the   past   had   never  seen.     One   night  amid   the 


FRENCH    DEPARTMENT   OF  THE   MANUFACTURES    BUILDING. 

thronging  thousands  there  burst  over  the  vast  area  a  song  between 
the  selections  of  the  great  orchestra.  It  was  "  Nearer  my  God  to 
Thee."  It  seemed  like  a  cry  in  the  night.  At  another  time  the  song 
of  "  Old  Folks  at  Home  "  in  like  manner  followed  the  band. 


FRENCH    COLONIES    BUILDING. 


The  French  building  allured  our  trio,  who  were  greatly  interested 
in  its  beautiful  rooms.  The  German  building  on  the  inside  presented 
the  stately  and  gloomy  grandeur  of  an  old  cathedral.  All  of  the  for- 


284  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

eign  buildings  were  plans  of  their  own  countries,  and  in  most  of  them, 
especially  in  the  South  American,  one  felt  the  charm  and  spell  of 
what  they  were  intended  to  express. 

Day  by  day  the  delighted  crowds  surged  on.  One  could  hardly 
dream  here  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  death  in  the  world.  None 
of  the  faces  seemed  to  wear  any  trace  of  sorrow  or  care.  Every  one 
appeared  happy.  O  blessed  hours !  When  will  the  world  ever  find 
in  associated  life  such  pleasure  again  ? 

A   WABAN    ROSE. 

I  WENT  out  to  the  bowery  hills  of  the  little  town  named  Waban,  to 
see  the  wonderful  Waban  roses.  "  There  must  be  some  legends 
here  ?  "  said  I. 

"  There  is,"  said  the  gardener.  Then  we  sat  down  among  the 
roses,  and  he  told  it  to  me. 

WABAN. 

TOMMY  TREMBLY  was  a  tinker.  "  Tommy  Tinker "  he  might  have  been 
called,  for,  like  his  English  craftsman  of  the  same  trade  name,  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  roam 

the  country  around, 
Crying,  "  Old  brass  to  mend." 

The  old  New  England  tinkers  were  useful  folk  in  their  day,  but  they  are  as 
dead  to  customs  of  the  present  time  as  poor  Christopher  Sly,  whom  the  curious 
ballad  of  "  The  Tinker's  Good  Fortune  "  put  for  a  time  in  a  duke's  place,  and 
whom  Shakespeare  so  happily  celebrates  in  the  Induction  to  the  comedy  of  the 
"Taming  of  the  Shrew." 

Our  New  England  tinker,  Tommy  Trembly,  did  not  experience  any  such 
good  fortune  as  Christopher's.  But  he  resembled  Sly  in  his  alehouse  habits, 
and  like  him,  hoped  for  the  accidents  of  fortune. 

He  did  not  chance  to  fall  into  the  kindly  hands  of  the  good  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, but  he  did  fall  into  the  pastoral  court  of  Old  Waban,  the  famous  Indian 
judge.  This  did  not  bring  him  the  fortune  that  he  expected ;  and  it  is  of 
Tommy  Trembly's  ill-luck  and  misfortune  as  a  witness  in  court  that  I  have  a 
somewhat  curious  provincial  story  to  tell. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE.  285 

Old  Waban's  name  meant  the  wind.  To  the  Indians  of  Natick  he  was  the 
wind.  His  mind,  it  was  believed,  swept  the  sky,  wandered  free  over  the  forests 
and  streams,  and  comprehended  all  things.  When  the  wind  uttered  his  voice 
the  truth  was  thought  to  have  been  spoken,  and  nothing  more  needed  saying. 
The  Wind  was  the  oracle. 

Waban's  name  still  lives.  The  beautifully  shaded  lake  under  the  green  hills 
about  Wellesley  College,  over  which  the  girl  students  often  row  in  good  weather, 
will  always  recall  the  name  of  the  famous  chief  which  it  bears  ;  and  a  pretty 
suburban  village  near  Boston  is  also  called  Waban.  The  name  is  worth  per- 
petuating, for  Waban  was  a  noble  chief  and  an  upright  judge. 

He  was  a  judge  more  than  a  chief;  and  Natick,  and  other  old  towns  on  the 
winding  Charles  River,  used  to  be  full  of  anecdotes  of  his  odd  but  wise  edicts. 

One  of  his  writs  against  an  evil-doer  who  bore  the  name  of  Jeremiah  Offscow 
was  long  preserved. 

It  ran :  "  You,  you  big  constable  guide,  you  catch  um  Jeremiah  Offscow, 
strong  you  hold  um,  safe  you  bring  um  afore  me.  Waban,  justice  of  the  peace." 
He  had  a  love  of  fine-sounding  and  rhythmic  language,  as  the  writ  shows. 

Waban's  principal  residence  was  at  Natick,  but  that  name  once  compre- 
hended the  whole  region  along  the  Charles  River  occupied  by  the  Natick 
Indians.  The  great  tree  at  Brighton,  under  which  he  used  to  pray  and  preach, 
was  for  public  safety  recently  cut  down.  It  was  the  largest  tree  ever  known  in 
the  New  England  Colonies. 

Old  Waban's  judgments  at  court  were  often  severe.  A  young  Indian  justice 
of  the  peace  came  to  him  one  day,  and  said :  - 

"  What  would  you  do  in  case  where  a  whole  company  of  Indians  were  found 
to  have  become  drunk  and  quarrelsome?" 

"  I  first  tie  them  all  up." 

"And  then?" 

"  I  would  whip  um  plaintiff." 

"Yes?" 

"  And  then  I  whip  um  'fendant !  " 

The  young  Indian  looked  surprised. 

"  What  I  do  with  the  witnesses  in  such  a  case?     Listen." 

But  I  will  not  tell  here  what  old  Judge  Waban  would  have  done  with  a  witness 
in  such  a  situation,  for  it  would  anticipate  my  story. 

Tommy  Trembly,  the  tinker,  roamed  up  and  down  the  provincial  towns, 
with  a  soldering  iron  and  pail  of  solder  in  a  loose  bag  on  his  back,  crying  lustily, 
as  he  passed  a  house,  "Old  brass  to  mend?  Old  brass  to  mend?"  by  which 
he  meant:  "  Have  you  any  kitchen  utensils  that  need  repairing?  " 


286  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Much  of  the  cooking  and  laundrying  was  done  at  this  period  in  immense 
brass  kettles,  which  after  long  use  became  thin  and  leaky,  and  the  leaks  were 
commonly  mended  by  the  wandering  tinker  during  his  visits. 

Tommy  Trembly  was  a  pioneer  of  his  craft.  He  used  to  wander  from  Boston 
up  and  down  the  towns  on  the  Charles  River,  and  into  the  Indian  towns  of 
'Natick,  Punkapoag  and  Magunkaquog,  or  "  the  place  of  great  trees,"  as  Hop- 
kinton  was  once  called.  Other  tinkers  wandered  up  the  valley  of  the  Merrimac. 

Nearly  every  village  had  an  "  ordinary,"  or  eating-house.  This  place  was 
sometimes  more  a  drinking-house  than  an  eating-house.  Most  of  the  disorderly 
conduct  of  those  generally  well-conducted  days  began  in  the  mugs  of  these  old 
taverns. 

There  were  some  twelve  hundred  Praying  Indians,  as  the  Christian  Indians 
were  called,  in  the  villages  near  Boston  at  this  time.  These  had  been  converted 
to  Christianity  through  the  efforts  of  John  Eliot,  the  Indian  apostle,  who  trans- 
lated the  Bible  into  the  Indian  tongue.  The  principal  seat  of  the  Praying 
Indians  was  at  Natick,  and  Waban  was  their  principal  leader,  governor,  coun- 
sellor, and  judge. 

There  was  an  ordinary  near  the  borders  of  Lake  Cochituate,  not  far  from  the 
Indian  village,  kept  by  one  "  Indian  Pendergast"  and  his  wife,  which  acquired  a 
bad  reputation  from  the  brawls  that  had  occurred  there  over  the  drinking-cups. 
Squaw  Pendergast,  as  the  hostess  was  called,  was  a  sharp-eyed,  money-loving 
Indian  woman,  who  could  speak  English  well ;  and  it  was  her  passion  to  secure 
as  many  pence  and  shillings  as  possible  from  every  guest  who  came. 

"  T  is  the  bar  that  makes  the  money,  I  tell  you ;  't  is  the  bar  that  makes  the 
money.  Slap  !  "  she  used  to  say,  striking  her  hand  on  her  long,  jingling  jacket. 

"Yes,"  once  answered  a  grave  old  Indian  deacon;  "  and  it  is  the  bar  that 
loses  the  money  at  last,  and  good  name  and  soul  and  all,  as  you  will  see,  Squaw 
Pendergast.  Ale  money  um  heap  poor ! 

One  early  autumn  day  Tommy  Trembly  wandered  away  from  Boston  along 
the  Charles  River,  through  little  settlements  and  past  the  farms,  crying,  when 
he  saw  a  habitation,  "Old  brass  to  mend?  Old  brass  to  mend?" 

The  next  afternoon  found  him  at  Natick.  He  had  mended  many  pots  and 
kettles  by  the  way.  The  heats  of  early  autumn  were  cooling  now ;  the  apples 
were  reddening  on  the  trees.  There  were  thistle-downs  on  the  roads  and  by- 
ways, and  the  graceful  leaves  of  the  sassafras  were  turning  yellow. 

Approaching  Natick,  Tommy  ceased  to  cry,  "Old  brass  to  mend?"  He 
had  earned  much  money  by  the  way,  and  his  only  thought  now  was  of  the 
ordinary,  and  of  Squaw  Pendergast's  hard  cider  and  foaming  mugs  of  ale. 
Here  and  there  a  farmer  called  to  him  to  stop,  but  he  did  not  heed. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE.  287 

"  Here,  stop,  stop  !  Kettles,  kettles  !  "  shouted  one  goodwife  ;  but  Tommy 
did  not  even  turn  his  head  in  response. 

"  Stop  that  wild  tinker ;  kettles,  kettles !  "  she  cried  to  her  hired  man. 
"Kettles,  kettles!"  shouted  the  man,  swinging  his  corn-knife;  but  on  flew 
Tommy,  unheeding. 

"Are  you  flying  to-day?  "  asked  black-eyed  Squaw  Pendergast,  as  his  dusty 
figure  moved  athwart  the  cool  trunks  of  the  trees. 

"  Ay,  Squaw  Pendergast,  and  it 's  good  money  I  Ve  made  to-day,"  said 
Tommy,  striking  on  a  pocket  in  his  leather  breeches. 

"  It 's  a  lively  supper  that  I  have  for  you,"  said  the  squaw.  Tommy  threw 
down  his  bag  of  tools  and  fanned  himself  with  his  hat,  looking  away  to  the 
sunset  sky. 

A  "  lively "  supper  Tommy  made,  but  his  pocket  did  not  chink  so  lively 
after  it  was  over.  Some  idling  cattle-drovers  came,  and  he  took  another  supper 
with  them;  and  after  his  two  suppers  were  over  his  leather  pocket  did  not 
chink  at  all.  But  the  chink  might  have  been  heard  in  Squaw  Pendergast's  long 
woollen  pocket. 

During  the  evening  a  quarrel  arose  between  the  half-intoxicated  drovers  and 
Pendergast,  the  keeper  of  the  ordinary,  who  was  an  ale-drinking,  indolent,  dis- 
orderly Indian.  The  men  disputed ;  the  Indian  interfered,  and  struck  one  of 
them  to  the  floor,  where  he  lay  for  a  time  insensible. 

The  squaw  took  her  husband's  side  in  the  quarrel,  and  threw  firewood  at  the 
drovers;  and  amid  it  all  the  alarmed  neighbors  came  to  the  place  and  de- 
manded the  keeping  of  the  peace. 

The  idlers  at  the  ordinary  went  away  through  fear  of  arrest,  and  with  them 
disappeared  Tommy  Trembly's  bag  of  tinker's  tools,  solder,  and  soldering  irons. 

The  man  recovered,  but  the  next  morning  came  an  order  from  Judge  Waban 
for  the  arrest  of  the  Indian  Pendergast  and  his  squaw,  and  also  a  demand  that 
Tommy  Trembly  should  appear  as  witness. 

The  court  day  was  appointed.  Tommy  was  greatly  frightened,  for  the 
eccentric  punishments  of  Old  Waban's  courts  were  famous;  and  the  affair 
presented  Tommy  in  no  favorable  light  among  the  grave  Puritan  Indians. 

"  I  am  only  a  witness,"  he  said  to  the  people  who  stared  at  him  on  the  way, 
"  only  the  witness,  you  know." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  will  find  yourself  when  you  get  into  the  court 
of  Old  Waban,"  said  a  farmer.  "  If  you  weren't  a  white  man  I  would  not  like 
to  stand  in  your  place." 

The  court  was  held  on  the  brown  fields  near  where  Wellesley  College  now 


288  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

stands.  The  slopes  were  cooled  by  great  oak  shadows,  and  overlooked  the 
lovely  pond  now  called  Lake  Waban.  All  the  people,  Indians  and  white, 
gathered  from  skeleton  villages  around  to  witness  the  trial. 

It  was  a  hot  autumn  day.  The  locusts  sang  in  the  great  oaks,  and  the 
ospreys  whirled  in  the  sky.  The  grasses  rustled;  the  ferns  were  turning 
yellow,  and  blue  gentians  filled  the  dry  beds  of  the  summer  weirs  under  the 
hills. 

Here  and  there  wild  grasses  hung  from  the  trees,  and  everywhere  the 
always  curious  bluejays  floated  and  scolded,  as  if  to  ask  what  meant  all  this 
gathering  of  the  people. 

Old  Waban  sat  under  a  patriarchal  oak,  grave  and  stately.  A  blanket 
trimmed  with  shells  was  thrown  over  him.  He  wore  leather  breeches,  and 
herons'  plumes  covered  his  head.  He  was  an  old  man,  but  his  hair  was  black 
and  long.  His  hands  were  hard  and  brawny  as  copper,  and  as  he  sat  down  on 
a  shelf  of  rock  under  the  oak,  he  rested  his  chin  on  a  staff. 

Among  the  Indians  who  gathered  around  him  were  several  who  claimed  to 
be  nearly  one  hundred  years  old.  Peambow,  or  Peam  Boohan,  the  ruling  elder 
of  Hassanamesit  (Groton),  was  there,  and  Pennahannit,  or  Captain  Josiah,  the 
governor-general  of  the  Praying  Indian  towns.  Several  sagamores  came  in 
blankets  and  feathers,  and  some  twenty  or  more  white  people  were  present. 

Finally  came  Joshua  Mayhew,  Esq.,  on  horseback,  as  the  representative 
justice  of  the  General  Court  of  Massachusetts  to  the  rustic  court  of  the  Christian 
Indian  community.  It  was  high  noon,  and  old  Judge  Waban  slowly  rose,  and 
stood  with  lifted  hand.  "  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  Listen  to  the  voice  of 
the  Wind."  He  looked  a  forest  patriarch,  as  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  3un- 
crowned  oak. 

"  The  peace  has  been  broken.  A  white  man  is  the  witness  of  it.  Let  the 
prisoners  be  brought,  and  Thomas  Trembly,  who  is  the  witness.  Sit  down  !  " 

All  sat  down  on  the  ground.  The  two  prisoners  were  brought,  with  their 
hands  tied  behind  them.  After  them  came  Tommy  Trembly. 

"  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  Wind,"  said  Old 
Waban,  rising,  with  lifted  hand  "  Thomas  Trembly,  tell  us  the  story  of  the 
fight  which  you  saw  at  Pendergast's." 

Tommy  told  his  story,  —  the  quarrel,  and  how  he  was  robbed. 

"  It  was  a  bad  place?"  said  Waban,  shaking  his  head. 

"  It  was  an  orful  bad  place,  —  an  orful  place,"  said  Tommy. 

"The  people  were  all  drinking  there?" 

"  All  drinking.     Yes,  it  was  orful." 


THE   FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE.  289 

"  Did  you  drink?" 

"  I  took  a  warm  supper.     I  had  been  travelling  and  tinkering." 

Squaw  Pendergast  bent  her  black  eyes  angrily  upon  him. 

"  And  I  was  robbed,"  said  Tommy,  with  a  martyr-like  air.  "  The  squaw 
she  first  got  away  from  me  all  my  money  for  —  my  supper.  Then  I  was 
frightened,  and  then  I  was  robbed.  I  have  lost  almost  a  week's  work." 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  Old  Waban ;   "  hard  times  you  Ve  had.     Ugh  ! 

"  Hear  ye !  hear  ye !  hear  ye !  Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  Wind,"  he 
presently  said.  "What  shall  be  done  with  the  Indian  Pendergast?" 

There  was  a  council  of  the  leading  Indians. 

"  Let  him  be  tied  to  a  hornbeam,  and  given  fifty  lashes  on  his  bare  back," 
said  Waban. 

A  small  hornbeam-tree  stood  near.  Indian  Pendergast  was  tied  to  it,  his 
clothing  was  partly  removed,  and  he  was  whipped,  amid  the  silence  of  the 
assembly. 

"  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  Wind,"  said  Old 
Waban.  "What  shall  be  done  with  the  squaw?" 

Another  council,  as  before. 

"  Twenty-five  lashes  on  her  shoulders,"  pronounced  Old  Waban. 

She  was  led  away  to  the  hornbeam,  and  received  the  lashes  in  perfect 
silence,  as  though  she  had  been  an  image. 

"You  got  paid  well,"  said  Tommy,  as  she  was  led  by  him  after  the 
chastisement. 

"  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  Wind  !  "  said  Old 
Waban  to  the  drovers.  "  Go,  take  your  cattle  and  drive  them  away,  and  never 
do  you  come  again  to  the  honest  Indian  towns.  If  you  come,  you  shall  go  to 
the  hornbeam-tree,  too.  Go  !  " 

He  lifted  his  brown  arm  and  pointed  to  the  north.  He  stood  like  a  statue. 
The  drovers  did  not  reply ;  they  knew  his  right  to  order  them  away  from  the 
towns.  The  cattle  were  grazing  in  the  meadowy  pastures  under  the  hills, 
among  the  tall  swamp-grass  and  spearmint  beds  and  fir-trees.  The  drovers 
hurried  them  away. 

There  was  something  grand  in  the  old  Indian  as  he  stood  there  with  lifted 
arm,  the  very  picture  of  Justice  and  Truth.  Here  was  a  forest  prophet  who, 
under  the  Christian  teaching  of  Eliot,  had  put  the  nature  of  the  savage  animal, 
to  which  he  had  been  born,  under  his  will,  and  was  governed  by  his  faith  in 
God  and  moral  sense. 

He  was  called  "The  New  Chief"  because  he  had  developed  a  new  nature 

'9 


ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

and  become  a  new  man.  Odd  his  decisions  in  court  often  were,  but  there  was 
moral  sense  in  them,  and  he  believed  that  when  Waban  the  Wind  spoke,  he 
uttered  the  will  of  the  Higher  Power. 

The  people  watched  the  drovers  as  they  cracked  their  whips  and  disappeared 
among  the  blazed  trees  of  the  oaklands.  Waban  at  length  broke  the  silence. 

"  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  for  the  last  time.  Listen  to  the  voice  of  the 
Wind.  What  shall  be  done  with  Thomas  Trembly?  " 

"Done?"  said  Tommy,  starting;  "done  with  me?  I  haven't  done  nothing. 
I  'm  white ;  you  can't  touch  me.  I  'm  only  a  witness." 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  Old  Waban. 

"  I  ought  to  be  paid  for  my  tinker's  tools,"  said  Tommy. 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  Old  Waban,  "  you  lost  them  there." 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  very  place  where  I  lost  them ;  and  I  '11  lose  a  week's  time 
beside." 

"  And  that  because  you  were  there?  " 

"Yes  ;  and  by  good  rights  I  ought  to  be  paid  the  cost  of  my  tools,  and  the 
money  I  lost  at  the  inn  after  being  so  shamefully  used  there,"  said  Tommy. 

"  Ugh  !  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  Listen  to  the  Wind.  What  shall  be 
done  with  Thomas  Trembly,  the  tinker?" 

"  Give  him  the  ordinary,"  said  a  white  man.  "  Fine  the  Pendergasts  by 
giving  the  tinker  the  ordinary." 

The  chief  again  lifted  his  hand. 

"  Take  him,"  said  Waban,  "  to  the  hornbeam-tree,  and  give  him  as  many 
sound  lashes  as  you  gave  the  squaw." 

"  What !     You  can't !  I  am  a  white  man  !  " 

"  But  the  white  brother  here,"  said  Waban,  turning  to  Justice  Mayhew, 
"  approves  my  sentence.  Take  him  to  the  hornbeam." 

"  What  for?  what  for?  "  screamed  the  tinker. 

"  What  for?"  said  Waban.  "  What  for?  For  being  found  in  bad  company. 
"  You  should  n't  have  been  there  !  " 

Tommy  received  the  chastisement  in  a  very  frantic  manner,  uttering  the 
loudest  protestations.  When  the  lashes  had  been  given  he  crept  away,  hardly 
lifting  his  eyes. 

The  people  of  Natick  were  slow  to  forget  the  old  chief's  methods  with  wit- 
nesses who  were  found  in  bad  company,  and  who  "  should  n't  have  been  there." 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE.  29! 

LEGEND  OF  NORTHMEN'S  ROCK.1 

(Thorfin,  1007.) 

HAVE  you  heard  it  —  the  Northmen's  Rune  of  the  Rose 

In  the  climes  of  the  sunbeams  pale  ? 
'  T  was  —  Far  from  the  night  of  the  six  months'  snows 

Went  the  barque  of  the  silver  sail. 
'  T  was  —  Far  from  the  lands  of  the  frozen  fens 

Lay  the  lands  of  the  sunshine  clear. 
And  Thorfin  followed  the  osprey's  pens, 
With  his  bride  from  Fiord  Fere, 
To  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

To  the  land  where  the  wild  woods  sing ; 
Oh,  happy  the  bride  of  the  North,  who  goes 
On  the  barque  of  the  silver  wing  ! 

The  palace  a  pile  of  crystal  shone, 

And  its  ice  walls  were  mingled  with  fire, 
And  minstrels  sat  round  the  mailed  throne, 

With  red  torch,  the  saga  and  lyre. 
"  I  have  married  a  wife,"  said  Thorfin,  young, 

"  And  my  bride  is  tender  and  fair ; 
And  I  've  heard  the  tale  by  the  minstrels  sung, 
Of  the  land  of  the  golden  air, 
Of  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

Of  the  land  where  the  sun-birds  sing, 
Where  the  purple  vine  of  the  wined  grape  grows, 
And  the  winters  are  bright  with  spring. 

"  My  crystal  sails  in  the  silver  mist, 

I  will  lift  where  the  warm  winds  play, 
And  over  the  seas  of  amethyst, 

I  will  bear  my  bride  away  * 

Far  over  the  sea-road  Eric  the  Red, 

Past  Helluland  the  fair, 

To  the  pine-plumed  mountain  that  lifts  its  head 
In  the  land  of  the  golden  air; 
To  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose. 

The  land  where  the  sun-birds  sing, 
Where  the  purple  vine  of  the  wined  grape  grows, 
And  the  winters  are  bright  with  spring." 

From  the  fiords  white  moved  the  lateen  sail, 
From  the  fiords  white  and  gray, 

1  This  Rock  may  be  seen  on  the  East  shore  of  the  Mt.  Hope  Lands,  near  the  Soldiers'  Home. 


292  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

Where  the  nights  are  fire  and  the  sun  is  pale, 

And  snow-mists  veil  the  day. 
"  Farewell  "  sang  the  bards  in  the  crystal  halls, 

To  the  barque  of  Thorfin  fair. 
"We  still  will  sing  at  the  festivals 
Of  the  land  of  the  golden  air ; 
Of  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

The  land  where  the  sun-birds  sing  ; 
Oh,  happy  the  bride  of  the  North  that  goes 
On  the  barque  of  the  silver  wing." 

They  came  to  the  slopes  of  the  New  World's  Bay, 

And  the  either  hills  were  green, 
But  a  red  canoe  with  plumes  of  gray 

In  the  dusky  nights  was  seen. 
Then  Thorfin  said  :  "  The  sun  is  bright, 

And  its  summers  are  wondrous  fair, 
But  the  wily  savage  lurks  at  night 
In  the  land  of  the  golden  air ; 
In  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

The  land  where  the  sun-birds  sing, 
Where  the  purple  vine  of  the  wined  grape  grows, 
And  the  winters  are  bright  with  spring 

"  We  will  write  our  names  on  the  sea  walls  clear, 

On  the  reedy  rocks  by  the  Bay  ; 
And  the  legend  leave  of  our  young  child  here, 

Then  sail  o'er  the  seas  away." 
So  back  o'er  the  waves  of  the  windy  seas, 

The  child  of  their  love  they  bear, 
To  dream  of  the  mount  and  its  sun-crowned  trees 
In  the  land  of  the  golden  air ; 
In  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

In  the  land  where  the  sun-birds  sing, 
Where  the  purple  vine  of  the  wined  grape  grows, 
And  the  winters  are  bright  with  spring. 

To  the  fiords  wild  came  the  lateen  sail, 

To  the  fiords  white  and  gray, 
Where  the  nights  are  fire,  and  the  sun  is  pale, 

And  the  snow-mists  veil  the  day 
"  The  sail  comes  back,"  said  the  bards  of  the  halls, 

"  From  the  land  of  lands  most  fair  ; 
Now  what  shall  we  sing  at  the  festivals  ? 

For  sorrow  and  death  are  there, 


THE  FOLK-LORE   MEETINGS  AT   THE  ART  PALACE.  293 

In  the  land  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

In  the  land  where  the  sun-birds  sing, 
And  the  world  is  not  happy  wherever  goes 

The  barque  with  the  silver  wing." 

On  their  royal  pens  round  Mount  Hope  Bay, 

The  ospreys  scream  in  the  noons, 
And  the  early  bluebirds  flit,  and  stray 

The  herons  white,  in  the  moons. 
And  the  rocks  of  the  Bay,  the  legends  say, 

The  name  of  the  young  child  bear; 
Though  centuries  nine  have  passed  away, 
From  the  booths  of  Thorfin  there  ; 

And  this  was  the  Northmen's  Rune  of  the  Rose, 

And  the  land  of  the  sunshine  clear, 
And  the  bride  who  sailed  from  the  Norland  snows 
And  the  waters  of  Fiord  Fere. 

The  last  stories  told  at  the  folk-lore  meetings  in  the  Art  Palace 
were  largely  in  verse.  One  of  these  was  a  peculiar  kind  of  old  New 
England  narrative,  told  in  the  "  chink,  chink  "  manner ;  another  was 
an  Illinois  wonder-tale,  with  a  peculiar  refrain. 

The  old  Puritan  baby-story  of  the  "  wee,  wee  pig  "  was  also  recited 
in  the  colonial  manner. 

We  end  our  folk-lore  stories  with  these  curious  examples  of  legend 
and  traditions. 

THE   ROCK   OF   THE    ILLINOIS. 

A    BALLAD. 

THE  Illini  lived  in  the  climes  of  the  flowers, 
Where  the  air-swimming  birds  in  the  sunshine  delight, 
Where  the  summers  were  splendors  of  magical  hours, 
And  the  day  was  a  sun-torch,  a  star-torch  the  night. 
Oh,  fair  were  their  lives  on  the  carpets  of  bloom, 
And  loud  were  their  fire-songs  of  triumph  and  joy, 
And  redly  their  night-torches  danced  through  the  gloom 
At  their  feasts  on  the  Rock  of  the  blue  Illinois: 

The  gray  rock  that  hung 
O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river  ! 


294  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

That  Rock  was  the  Indian's  glory  and  pride, 

The  crown  of  the  venturous  chiefs,  massive  and  strong, 

The  prairies  beneath  it,  and  dimpling  beside 

The  bright  laughing  face  of  the  river  of  song. 

But  the  Plumes  of  the  Lakes  all  united  at  last, 

The  tribes  of  the  Illini  proud  to  destroy, 

And  down  from  the  northern  plains  swept  like  a  blast, 

And  laid  siege  to  the  Rock  of  the  blue  Illinois  : 

The  gray  rock  that  hung 
O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river ! 

"  Ho  !  Ho  !  "  cry  the  chiefs  of  the  Illini  proud, 
To  the  braves  of  the  Lakes  on  the  prairie  below, 
"  Ye  have  come  in  the  sun,  ye  will  go  in  the  cloud, 
As  the  hatchet-wolves  run  to  the  timber  —  Ho  !  ho  !  "  — 
"  Ho!  Ho!  "  answer  back  the  Lake  Plumes,  in  their  ire, 
"  'T  is  the  North  winds  that  wither,  and  waste  and  destroy, 
We  have  come  in  the  blast,  and  will  go  in  the  fire." 
Then  loud  laughed  the  Rock  of  the  blue  Illinois  : 

The  gray  rock  that  hung 
O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river, 

And  gayly  their  sun-dance  the  Illini  kept, 

And  boastful  they  rested  at  eve  in  the  dews, 

But  nearer  and  nearer  their  wily  foes  crept, 

And  the  cool  river  filled  with  their  rocking  canoes. 

Seven  suns  lit  the  day  ;  seven  moons  lit  the  night ; 

Then  fled  from  the  Illini's  faces  the  joy; 

For  the  water  was  low,  and  the  springs  sunk  from  sight, 

And  the  foe  held  the  banks  of  the  blue  Illinois! 

Oh,  the  gray  rock  that  hung 
O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river  ! 

They  lowered  their  gourds  to  the  river  in  vain  ; 
They  crept  toward  the  rippling  waters  to  die; 
They  called  on  the  gods  of  the  cloudlands  for  rain, 
But  answered  them  only  the  flames  of  the  sky. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE.  295 

They  delved,  but  in  vain,  in  famishing  springs  ; 
They  sought,  but  in  vain,  the  red  Plumes  to  deploy  ; 
Their  thirst  deeper  burned,  and  the  rain-plover's  wings 
Brought  no  cloud  to  the  air  of  the  blue  Illinois  : 
To  the  gray  rock  that  hung 

O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 
Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 
And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river! 

An  Indian  mother  crept  down  to  the  tide, 

On  her  famishing  bosom  her  babe  newly  born  ; 

The  cool  waters  rippled  the  rock  ferns  beside, 

And  sweetly  the  rain-plover  sung  in  the  corn. 

"  Back  !  "  shouted  the  foe,  with  their  cross-bows  upraised: 

She  drew  to  her  fever-spent  bosom  her  boy ; 

And  her  thin,  withered  face  to  the  blazing  sky  raised, 

And  leaped,  and  lay  dead  in  the  blue  Illinois  ! 

Oh,  the  gray  rock  that  hung 
O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river ! 

"Ho!  Ho  !"  cried  the  Plumes  of  the  Northern  Lakes  proud, 
To  the  braves  on  the  Rock  whose  red  warfare  was  done. 
"  Ho  !  Ho !   we  came  down  in  the  billows  of  cloud, 
But  our  feet  will  go  back  in  the  paths  of  the  sun." 
One  by  one  sunk  the  braves  on  the  high  Rock  to  die  ; 
One  by  one  did  the  gray  wolves  of  fever  destroy  ; 
And  the  Northern  winds  blew,  and  the  waves  rippled  by, 
And  the  rain-plover  sang  on  the  blue  Illinois  ! 

Oh,  the  gray  rock  that  hung 
O  'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sung 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool,  cool  ran  the  prairie  river! 

Their  red  wars  were  ended,  their  victories  past. 
They  perished,  the  cool  waters  singing  below  ; 
"  Ho  !  Ho  !  "  again  shouted  the  Plumes  of  the  blast ; 
But  only  the  silent  Rock  echoed  "  Ho  !  Ho!" 
'T  was  so,  fever  maddened,  the  Illini  died, 
Whose  bright,  airy  tents  filled  the  prairies  with  joy, 
And  the  rain-plover  sings  o'er  their  white  bones  beside 
The  gray,  crumbling  Rock  of  the  blue  Illinois  ! 


296  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

But  often  the  boatman  his  moonlit  oar  lifts, 

And  holds  in  the  air,  and  his  boat  gliding  slow, 

He  listens  —  and  o'er  him  a  thin  echo  drifts. 

"  Ho  !  Ho  !  "  and  re-echoes  «  Ho  !  Ho  !  "  and  »  Ho  !  Ho ! 

Like  the  breath  of  the  dying  it  comes,  and  is  gone ; 

Like  the  shuddering  leaves  that  the  still  frosts  destroy, 

And  sweetly  the  rain-plover  sings  in  the  corn, 

When  the  morning  breeze  ripples  the  blue  Illinois! 

And  the  gray  rocks  still  hang 
O'er  the  billows  of  blooms, 

Where  the  rain-plover  sang 
In  the  dark  under  glooms, 

And  cool  runs  the  prairie  river  ! 


"THE   WEE   WEE  PIG." 

THERE  was,  once  on  a  time,  a  wee  wee  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  wee  wee 
house  near  Cockermouth  in  old  England.  One  day  when  the  wee  wee  old 
woman  was  sweeping  her  wee  wee  house  with  a  wee  wee  broom,  she  found  a 
wee  wee  sixpence.  So  she  took  her  wee  wee  sixpence  and  went  to  market  and 
bought  a  wee  wee  pig,  and  started  her  wee  wee  pig  on  the  road  to  her  wee  wee 
home.  The  wee  wee  pig  went  along  very  well  until  they  came  to  a  bridge, 
which  the  wee  wee  old  woman  could  not  persuade,  coax,  or  force  her  wee  wee 
pig  to  cross.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  left  her  wee  wee  pig,  and  went  back 
until  she  came  to  a  stick. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  stick,  do  beat  wee  wee  pig;  wee  wee 
pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  stick 
would  n't  beat  wee  wee  pig.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  along  until  she 
came  to  a  fire. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  fire,  do  burn  stick ;  stick  won't  beat  wee 
wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  " 
But  the  fire  would  n't  burn  the  stick.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  along 
till  she  came  to  some  water. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  water,  do  quench  fire;  fire  won't  burn 
stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I 
sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  water  would  n't  quench  the  fire.  So  the 
wee  wee  old  woman  went  along  till  she  came  to  an  ox. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  ox,  do  drink  water;  water  won't  quench 
fire,  fire  won't  burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go 
over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  ox  would  n't  drink 
water.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  alone  till  she  came  to  a  butcher. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART  PALACE.  299 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  butcher,  do  kill  ox  ;  ox  won't  drink 
water,  water  won't  quench  fire,  fire  won't  burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee 
pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But 
the  butcher  would  n't  kill  the  ox.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  along  till 
she  came  to  a  rope. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  rope,  do  hang  butcher;  butcher  won't 
kill  ox,  ox  won't  drink  water,  water  won't  quench  fire,  fire  won't  burn  stick, 
stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't 
git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  rope  would  n't  hang  butcher.  So  the  wee  wee 
old  woman  went  along  till  she  came  to  a  rat. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  rat,  do  gnaw  rope ;  rope  won't  hang 
butcher,  butcher  won't  kill  ox,  ox  won't  drink  water,  water  won't  quench  fire, 
fire  wpn't  burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over 
bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  rat  would  n't  gnaw  the  rope. 
So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  along  till  she  came  to  a  cat. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  cat,  do  kill  rat;  rat  won't  gnaw  rope, 
rope  won't  hang  butcher,  butcher  won't  kill  ox,  ox  won't  drink  water,  water 
won't  quench  fire,  fire  won't  burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee 
pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  cat 
would  n't  kill  the  rat.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  along  till  she  came 
to  a  dog. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  dog,  do  kill  cat;  cat  won't  kill  rat,  rat 
won't  gnaw  rope,  rope  won't  hang  butcher,  butcher  won't  kill  ox,  ox  won't 
drink  water,  water  won't  quench  fire,  fire  won't  burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee 
wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'n't  git  home  to-night !  " 
But  the  dog  would  n't  kill  the  cat.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  went  along  till 
she  came  to  a  bear. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "Oh,  bear,  do  kill  dog;  dog  won't  kill  cat, 
cat  won't  kill  rat,  rat  won't  gnaw  rope,  rope  won't  hang  butcher,  butcher  won't 
kill  ox,  ox  won't  drink  water,  water  won't  quench  fire,  fire  won't  burn  stick, 
stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't 
git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  bear  would  n't  kill  dog.  So  the  wee  wee  old 
woman  went  along  till  she  came  to  a  lion. 

Said  the  wee  wee  old  woman,  "  Oh,  lion,  do  kill  bear;  bear  won't  kill  dog, 
dog  won't  kill  cat,  cat  won't  kill  rat,  rat  won't  gnaw  rope,  rope  won't  hang  but- 
cher, butcher  won't  kill  ox,  ox  won't  drink  water,  water  won't  quench  fire,  fire 
won't  burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over 
bridge,  and  I  sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  "  But  the  lion  would  n't  kill  bear. 


300  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

The  poor  old  wee  wee  woman  was  now  in  a  dreadful  quandary.  The  lion 
was  king  of  beasts,  and  the  wee  wee  old  woman  did  n't  know  anything  that  could 
kill  the  lion.  So  the  wee  wee  old  woman  sat  down  on  an  old  stump,  discour- 
aged and  all  tired  out. 

Presently  the  wee  wee  old  woman  saw  a  wee  little  black  flea,  on  her  checked 
apron. 

So  just  in  joke  and  for  nonsense  the  wee  wee  old  woman  said,  "Oh,  wee 
wee  flea,  do  kill  lion ;  lion  won't  kill  bear,  bear  won't  kill  dog,  dog  won't  kill 
cat,  cat  won't  kill  rat,  rat  won't  gnaw  rope,  rope  won't  hang  butcher,  butcher 
won't  kill  ox,  ox  won't  drink  water,  water  won't  quench  fire,  fire  won't  burn 
stick,  stick  won't  beat  wee  wee  pig,  wee  wee  pig  won't  go  over  bridge,  and  I 
sha'  n't  git  home  to-night !  " 

Now  the  wee  wee  flea  was  a  kind-souled,  womanish  little  wee  wee  flea,  and 
no  sooner  was  she  made  acquainted  with  the  poor  old  wee  wee  woman's  trouble 
than  the  wee  wee  flea  gave  a  spring  and  lighted  just  inside  the  lion's  right 
nostril,  out  of  the  reach  of  his  paw. 

Here  the  wee  wee  flea  began  to  bite  the  inside  of  the  lion's  nose  so 
sharp  that  he  got  dreadful  mad,  and  just  out  of  spite  began  to  kill  the  bear, 
whereupon  the  bear  began  to  kill  the  dog,  the  dog  began  to  kill  the  cat,  the  cat 
began  to  kill  the  rat,  the  rat  began  to  gnaw  the  rope,  the  rope  began  to  hang 
the  butcher,  the  butcher  began  to  kill  the  ox,  the  ox  began  to  drink  the  water, 
the  water  began  to  quench  the  fire,  the  fire  began  to  burn  the  stick,  the  stick 
began  to  beat  the  wee  wee  pig,  the  wee  wee  pig  began  to  go  over  the  bridge, 
and  the  wee  wee  old  woman  got  home  time  enough  to  go  to  bed  that  night. 

A    CHINK   CHINK   STORY. 

THE  old  story-tellers  in  the  sea-faring  towns  used  to  strike  their 
clenched  hands  on  their  knees  so  as  to  make  a  sound  like  the  chink- 
ing of  money. 

THE    WISE    LITTLE   WOMAN    WHO    OPENED  THE    PEWS.1 


HAVE  you  heard  of  the  tropical  Isles  of  June, 
The  coral  isles  with  their  splendors  of  palms, 
Where  the  sails  hang  loose  in  the  languorous  noon, 
And  a  dusky  sun  is  the  rising  moon, 

1  Permission  of  "  St.  Nicholas." 


DRAW-BRIDGES. 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT  THE  ART    PALACE.  303 

And  the  Southern  Cross  hangs  over  the  sea 
Like  the  jewels  of  Heaven  ?     Ah,  me  !  ah,  me  ! 
Those  gardens  of  gold  in  the  opal  main, 
How  they  tempted  the  souls  of  the  pilots  of  Spain  ! 
But  as  John  the  old  Sailor  was  wont  to  say, 
When  he  told  old  tales  in  his  comical  way, 
"  'T  is  only  the  gold  that  does  good  that  is  good  — 
And  only  the  rightful  gold  is  gain. 
Alas  for  the  spoil  of  the  pilots  of  Spain! 
'T  was  fool's  gold  all." 

ir. 

Our  John  was  a  sailor,  Sailor  John, 
A  grizzly  old  sailor  of  Provincetown  Bay, 
And  one  queer  old  tale  that  he  used  to  tell 
By  the  bright  fire-dogs  to  the  boys  now  gone, 
And  the  fisher-folk  —  I  remember  well. 
He  would  tell  it  to  us  in  his  odd  old  way, 
After  the  revels  on  Christmas  Day, 
And  at  evening  after  the  hours  of  play. 
He  would  lock  his  hands  and  strike  them  upon 
His  knees,  like  this:  chink,  chink,  chink,  chink. 
It  sounds  like  coins  of  gold,  I  know, 
It  sounds  like  coins  of  gold  —  but  oh, 
When  you  open  your  hands  there  is  nothing  there 
But  a  goldless  chasm  of  empty  air !  — 
'T  was  fool's  gold  all. 


Our  John  the  sailor,  Sailor  John, 

He  used  to  tell  the  tale  this  way, 

In  a  very  slow  and  deliberate  way, 

After  the  storms  upon  Provincetown  Bay: 

"  'T  is  about  Sir  Francis  Drake  of  the  Tay, 

Who  was  born  in  a  hut  beside  the  Tavy, 

A  famous  salt  in  Elizabeth's  day, 

The  old  sea-dog  of  the  British  Navy. 

He  guarded  the  coast  of  England  well, 

And  haunted  the  seas,  that  old  invader, 

And  gathered  spoils  from  the  Spanish  war, 

From  the  Isles  of  June  to  Cristobel, 

And  flouted  King  Philip  off  Trafalgar, 

And  scattered  the  ships  of  the  Great  Armada. 

The  first  to  sail  the  Pacific  Sea, 

And  first  to  smoke  tobacco  was  he. 


304  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE    WHITE   CITY. 

"  And  he  said  at  last,  '  Our  coast  is  hilly, 
And  the  northern  seas  are  dark  and  chilly : 
I  'm  growing  old  and  my  veins  are  cold, 
But  still  my  soul  is  athirst  for  go«d. 
Let  me  go  once  more  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
To  isles  of  the  sun,  and  the  golden  rain, 
And  rob  the  galleons  old  of  Spain.' 
He  went  and  died  'mid  the  isles,  ah  me! 
And  his  white  ship  scudded  across  the  sea, 
The  '  Golden  Hinde'  in  the  western  wind, 
And  never  again  to  his  home  came  he  — 
But  only  his  gold  brought  home  again. 
'Twas  fool's  gold  all. 


"  Old  Plymouth  stands  by  the  windy  sea, 
As  lovely  a  city  as  ever  was  seen. 
And  fair  are  the  churches  of  Plymouth  dean,1 
And  tall  was  the  church  that  stood  on  the  quay. 

"  Now  lonely  old  Susan  lived  on  the  moor, 

Away  from  the  tower  of  Plymouth  Green, 

Away  from  the  roads  of  Plymouth  dean. 

A  little  old  woman  and  poor  was  she, 

Whose  father  had  died  on  the  stormy  sea, 

And  she  went  to  the  church  on  each  Lord's  Day, 

Though  her  cottage  was  many  a  mile  away  — 

To  the  sailor's  church  that  looked  o'er  the  bay, 

The  church  of  the  storms  and  wild  sea-mews, 

And  she  was  hired  to  open  the  pews. 

It  made  the  church  seem  friendly  and  free, 

To  open  the  pews  by  charity. 

The  standing  committee  who  seated  the  people, 

And  the  grim  old  bell-ringer  who  lived  in  the  steeple, 

And  the  beadle  who  kept  evil-doers  in  awe, 

And  tickled  the  sleeper's  nose  with  a  straw, 

And  made  lazy  old  women  jump  up  in  their  dreams, 

And  wake  all  their  neighbors  with  spasms  and  screams 

They  were  worthy  folks  all,  but  not  equal  in  dues 

To  the  wise  little  woman  who  opened  the  pews. 

And  the  good  folks  on  Sunday  eacli  gave  her  a  penny, 

And  at  weddings  and  Christmases  twice  as  many, 

And  at  Hallowe'en  they  gave  her  a  guinea. 

"  Now,  one  autumn  morn,  as  she  came  to  the  church, 
The  sailors,  lingering  round  the  porch, 

1  Dean,  as  here  used,  means  "  a  small  valley." 


THE  FOLK-LORE  MEETINGS  AT   THE  ART  PALACE.  307 

Under  the  trees  strange  stories  told 

Of  Sir  Francis  Drake  and  his  shipload  of  gold  ; 

And  Susan  stopped  and  listened  awhile, 

Then  opened  the  pews  in  the  long,  broad  aisle, 

Not  over-pleased  at  the  wonderful  news. 

'  T  is  only  the  gold  that  does  good  that  is  gain, 

And  I  want  not  the  gold  of  the  pilots  of  Spain,' 

Said  the  wise  little  woman  who  opened  the  pews. 


"'T  was  in  glimmering  September  —  the  hour,  near  noon  ; 
The  prayers  had  been  read ;  the  clerk  gave  out  a  tune, 
And  stood  up  and  looked  through  the  window,  and  then 
His  eyes  oped  as  though  he  'd  ne'er  close  them  again  ; 
His  mouth  opened  too,  and  his  lips  rounded,  so, 
And  left  on  his  face  just  the  round  letter  O. 
Then  he  winked  to  the  beadle,  and  winked  to  the  squire, 
And  their  eyes  sought  the  window,  and  turned  from  the  choir. 
The  horizon  was  broken  —  there  were  sails  in  the  air  ; 
And  the  cross  of  St.  George  on  the  breeze  floated  fair. 
Then  arose  from  the  quay  a  tumultuous  shout, 
And  the  heads  of  the  singers  went  bobbing  about, 
And  no  one  looked  upward,  but  every  one  out. 


"  The  children  grew  restless,  the  tirewomen  bold,. 
And  the  beadle  cried  out,  '  Run,  run !     I  've  no  doubt 
'T  is  Sir  Francis  Drake  and  his  shipload  of  gold  ! 
It  will  make  us  all  rich,  and  we  '11  have  a  new  bell.' 
Then  the  beadle  ran  out ;  and  the  clerk  and  the  squire 
Said,  '  We  '11  now  put  new  shingles  upon  the  old  spire  ! ' 
Ran  the  sailors  and  women  and  tradespeople  all ; 
And  the  deaconess,  who  could  not  her  feelings  repress, 
Said,  '  Run,  and  it  may  be  / '//  get  a  new  dress.' 
Till  —  oh,  't  is  a  scandalous  story  to  tell  — 
Till  no  one  was  left  save  quaint  Rector  Mews 
And  the  wise  little  woman  who  opened  the  pews  ; 
Only  she,  and  the  figures  of  saints  on  the  wall. 
Then  the  rector  said,  '  Susan,  we  might  as  well  run  ; 
There  's  a  ship  coming  in  from  the  isles  of  the  sun. 
It  bodes  good  to  us  all,  this  remarkable  news: 
I  '11  run,  while  you  shut  up  the  pulpit  and  pews. 
'T  is  not  every  day  I  am  called  to  behold 
A  ship  from  the  Indies  all  loaded  with  gold  ! 


308  ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

'T  will  make  us  so  rich  we  '11  all  things  make  new, 
And  have  a  new  hassock  in  every  pew ! ' 
And  he  doffed  his  long  robe  in  a  hurry,  and  he 
Ran  after  the  others  all  down  to  the  quay. 

"  Susan  heard  the  men  shouting  on  roof-top  and  shore, 
The  boom  of  the  cannon,  the  answering  gun. 
But  she  turned  from  the  church  to  her  thatched-cottage  door, 
And  was  thankful  her  riches  had  made  her  so  poor. 

VII. 

"Uneventful  years  passed,  and  dull  was  the  news; 
And  the  wise  little  woman  still  opened  the  pews. 
And  Sir  Francis  again  from  the  port  sailed  away, 
Far  off  from  the  hills  of  the  Tavy  and  Tay ; 
And  at  last  the  good  people  looked  out  on  the  main 
For  his  ship  to  appear  in  the  distance  again  ; 
And  the  parson  still  preached  on  the  sins  of  the  Jews. 
From  the  Isles  of  June  came  not  gold,  spice,  nor  news  ; 
And  the  wise  little  woman  who  opened  the  pews 
Used  to  say.  '  You  must  search  for  gold  on  your  knees, 
And  look  up  to  Heaven,  not  over  the  seas 
For  gold-laden  ships  from  the  bright  Caribbees, 
The  riches  that  galleons  bring  over  the  deep. 
'T  is  only  the  gold  that  does  good  that  is  good ; 
And  the  gold  that  we  covet  and  hoard  up  and  keep, 
That 's  fool's  gold  all.' 

VIII. 

"The  St.  Martin  birds  came  to  the  church-tower  tall, 

And  the  purple-winged  swallows  that  lived  in  the  wall ; 

The  mavis  sang  sweet,  and  the  green  hedgerows  burned, 

And  the  wayside  brooks  into  violets  turned; 

The  lilies  tossed  in  the  scented  air. 

The  peach-boughs  reddened,  and  whitened  the  pear. 

Again  on  a  Sunday  came  wonderful  news, 

And  the  little  old  woman  who  opened  the  pews 

Again  heard  the  shoutings  of  joy  on  the  quay, 

The  cannon  and  answering  gun  on  the  sea. 

But  half-mast  hung  the  flag  on  that  battleship  old. 

Half-mast !    Who  had  died  'mid  the  cabins  of  gold? 

The  grand  ship  rode  into  the  harbor,  and  still 

Grew  the  wharves  and  the  towers  and  the  oak-shaded  hill, 

And  the  news  came  at  last,  't  was  Sir  Francis  had  died 

'Mid  his  cabins  of  gold  at  the  last  Christmas-tide. 


THE  FOLK-LORE   MEETINGS  AT  THE    ART  PALACE.  309 

'Sir  Francis?'  they  said.     'Let  the  old  bell  be  tolled.' 

And  the  old  bell  began  to  toll  —  toll  —  toll, 

Toll  —  toll  —  toll  —  toll. 

We  hope  there  was  gold  in  Sir  Francis's  soul. 

And  the  people  all  turned  from  the  long,  windy  quay,  — 

With  tears  turned  away  from  the  May-pleasant  sea, 

And  talked  of  the  brave  old  sea-lord  who  had  died 

'Neath  the  Southern  Cross  at  Christmas-tide, 

And  whose  form  had  been  sunk  in  the  deep,  moving  sea 

In  the  festival  days  of  Nativity. 

IX. 

"When  the  folks  sought  the  church  to  talk  of  the  news, 
Came  the  wise  little  woman  who  opened  the  pews, 
And  she  said  to  the  parson,  '  I  'm  sorry  indeed ; 
'T  is  not  that  kind  of  gold  that  our  spirits  most  need, 
But  the  gold  of  the  Word,  the  heart  and  the  deed. 
The  Sea  Knight  has  only  that  true  gold  to-day 
That  his  honor  refused,  or  his  heart  gave  away. 
Let  us  look  no  more  to  the  stores  of  the  seas, 
To  the  isles  of  the  sun  or  the  bright  Caribbees  — 
Let  us  envy  no  more  the  rich  galleons  of  Spain, 
'T  is  only  the  gold  that  does  good  that  is  gain. 
The  wealth  that  avarice  seeks  to  find 
Is  like  the  gold  of  the  "  Golden  Hinde;  " 
Chink,  chink,  chink,  chink  ;  who  it  commands 
Will  stand  at  last  with  empty  hands  — 
'T  is  fool's  gold  all!'" 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


NIGHT  IN   THE  COURT  OF   HONOR. 

T  was  a  midsummer  night  in  the  Court  of  Honor;  the 
crowds  had  vanished,  and  the  air,  the  grounds,  and 
the  Lake  were  still.  The  Columbian  Guards  had 
retired  from  the  weary  duties  of  the  day ;  the  lights, 
one  by  one,  had  gone  out;  the  constellations  of 
electric  splendors  had  passed  away  forever,  for  their 
renewal  would  be  like  the  lighting  of  new  stars. 

The  White  City  stood  in  the  silence  like  Shinar  Tower  after  the 
confusion,  for  if  on  the  plains  of  Babylonia  people  began  to  speak 
many  tongues,  here  the  harmony  of  language  found  a  prophetic 
expression  again.  The  world  had  not  built  here  a  tower  to  touch 
the  sky,  from  which  men  might  enter  heaven ;  but  the  beauty  that 
fancy  places  in  heaven  was  here,  and  into  it  people  came  and  went 
away,  and  read  here  the  fulfilment  of  earthly  and  celestial  visions. 
The  realities  of  Plato,  Virgil,  and  Sir  Thomas  More  were  here. 
All  the  beautiful  thoughts  of  creative  art  from  the  beginning  of 
time  here  found  expression.  Egypt  was  here;  Greece;  Rome,  in  her 
long  march  through  the  world ;  the  half-forgotten  gods  of  the  ancient 
world  were  here ;  Phidias  was  here ;  the  Augustine  age  of  the  poets ; 
the  Roman  age  of  colossal  art. 

The  Peristyle  was  white  in  the  starlight  under  the  serene  sky. 
The  Columbus  Quadriga,  with  its  grand  horses  and  Grecian  grooms, 
seemed  a  thing  of  the  Lake  and  sky ;  and  the  procession  of  heroes  on 


NIGHT  IN  THE   COURT  OF  HONOR. 


I  I 


the  Peristyle  was  like  a  night  march  of  the  ghosts  of  the  glorious 
sons   of  the  world. 

The  Columbian   Fountain  was  motionless,  and   Father  Time  sat 
at  the  helm  of  the  barge  of  state,  on  which  Columbia  was  enthroned, 


PERISTYLE,    FROM    THE   AGRICULTURAL   BUILDING. 

facing  the  stars  and  not  the  rainbows  of  spray  and  the  gay  gondolas. 
The  sturdy  Statue  of  Labor,  with  the  plough  horse  and  primitive 
harness,  stood  solitary  by  the  grand  basin ;  the  swans  moved  to  and 
fro  on  the  lagoons,  but  all  else  was  still  life. 

The    nations    seemed    dreaming,  —  England,    Germany,    FYance, 
Austria,  in   their  houses  and   pavilions   of  history;    Denmark,   Italy, 


312  ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE   CITY. 

India;  charming  Switzerland,  the  mother  of  republics;  tropical  South 
America,  where  Edwin  Arnold  says  may  one  day  come  the  greatest 
development  of  the  American  race.  The  Transportation  Building 
was  like  a  shadow ;  its  grand  portal,  like  the  door  of  the  sun,  had 
lost  its  glory  with  the  light.  Who  can  ever  forget  its  golden  door 
in  the  morning  light!  Wooded  Island,  too,  with  its  Ho-o-den  palace 
and  Japanese  garden,  was  a  shadow;  the  Convent  of  La  Rabida  was 
a  shadow,  —  and  the  Krupp  Building,  with  its  awful  guns;  the  battle 
ship  was  a  phantom ;  the  Walking  Sidewalk  rested ;  the  Eskimos 
w.ere  gone  to  their  mats ;  the  Hagenbeck  animals  were  sleeping  in 
their  cages ;  Cairo,  Java,  Algeria,  China,  all  slept  in  one  great  camp. 
There  was  silence  in  the  coffee  garden  of  Brazil. 

As  our  friends  walked  down  the  Court  of  Honor  toward  the 
Peristyle,  the  silence  seemed  a  prophecy ;  and  like  the  song  of  the 
angels  on  the  night  of  the  Nativity,  the  air  seemed  to  say,  "  The 
world  is  at  peace."  They  could  fancy  that  the  old  Destinies  were 
there,  and  that  they,  as  of  old,  said  to  their  spindles,  "  Thus  go  on 
forever." 

"If  Shinar's  Tower  was  the  beginning  of  the  world's  confusion,  the 
White  City  by  Lake  Michigan  may  be  the  beginning  of  the  new  and 
eternal  order  of  harmony,"  said  the  old  Quaker,  as  the  clocks  broke 
the  silence  with  twelve  strokes  each,  in  many  steeples  and  towers. 

A  night  watch  went  wandering  with  him  up  and  down  the  avenues 
of  white  luminous  walls.  He  was  a  man  who  had  been  well  educated, 
and  who  had  seen  much  of  the  world. 

"  There  is  one  statue  that  has  been  left  out,"  said  the  old  officer, 
"and  it  should  stand  here  in  the  Court  of  Honor,  for  it  might 
represent  the  best  of  all  for  which  the  world  can  hope ! " 

"  Whose  ?  "  asked  our  venerable  Quaker. 

"  Pestalozzi's,  the  founder  of  the  public  schools.  He  taught  that 
education  stands  for  character,  and  not  for  a  cunning  brain,  and  that 
character  means  the  brotherhood  and  peace  of  the  world." 


NIGHT  IN  THE   COURT  OF  HONOR.  315 

"  He  was  right,"  said  our  friend.  "  The  new  education  should  be 
that  of  peace.  It  should  follow  the  spirit  of  the  White  City  here, 
where  all  is  harmony  and  unity,  and  all  races  are  families  of  the  same 
common  family.  Our  schools,  our  churches,  our  societies,  should  all 


GERMAN    BUILDING. 


enter    into    this    new   education.       It    will    be    one    day    the   greatest 
teaching  in   the   world." 

'•  It  seems  as   though    sometimes,   when    I    wander    around    these 

Cl 

streets  at  night,"  said  the  watch,  "that   I  see  the  world  in  a  new  light. 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN    THE    WHITE    CITY. 


JAVANESE    FIDDLER,    FROM    THE    MIDWAY. 

like  this:  From  Christ  to  Pestalozzi ;  from  Pestalozzi  to  the  White 
City ;  from  the  White  City  to  the  peace  federations  of  republics ; 
and  from  that  to  the  unity  and  brotherhood  of  all  men.  The  next 
century  will  be  a  missionary  age  in  the  large  sense  of  the  world." 

"And  its  watchword  must  be  Disarm!" 

"  Then  humanity  must  build  again." 

"  The  movement  must  begin  in  the  schools,"  answered  the  old 
Quaker.  "  The  new  heroes  of  war  must  be  those  only  who  fought  for 


NIGHT  IN  THE   COURT  OF  HONOR. 


319 


ADMINISTRATION    BUILDING   BY    NIGHT. 


principle  and  peace.  I  am  glad  that  I  came  here,  and  that  I  have 
been  allowed  to  spend  the  night  here.  Stand  here  in  the  silence  and 
look  around  you.  It  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  world.  A  new 
movement  will  follow  it ;  I  can  feel  it.  I  rejoice  over  it  as  though 
it  had  already  been  !  " 

When  the  Marlowes  returned  home,  the  Folk-Lore  Society  sum- 
moned them  to  answer  the  questions  that  they  had  entrusted  to  them 
and  especially  to  Mr.  Manton  Marlowe,  their  president.  There  was 
a  full  meeting  of  the  Society,  to  hear  Mr.  Marlowe's  report.  He 
answered  three  of  the  questions  in  the  manner  that  we  have  suggested 
in  the  book:  — 


O-' 


ZIGZAG   JOURNEYS  IN   THE    WHITE    CITY. 


INDIA    BUILDING. 


That  the  most   amusing  thinsr  that  he  saw  at  the  Fair  was  the 

O  O 

merriment  of  the  crowds  in  the  Street  of  Cairo,  over  the  Eastern 
camel  riders ; 

That  the  most  useful  thing  was  the  Philadelphia  Working  Man's 
house ; 

That  the  grandest  thing  was  the  White-Bordered  Flag  in  the 
Court  of  Honor. 

The  greatest  lesson  of  the  Fair? 

"It  was  this,"  said  Mr.  Marlowe:  "the  agreement  among  the  archi- 
tects and  artists,  that  each  would  sacrifice  his  own  ideals  and  plans  to 
the  harmony  of  the  whole.  The  beauty  of  the  White  City  is  due  to 
that  principle,  and  it  is  a  lesson  for  all  time  !  " 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS- URBANA 

_   V...3.1C43PBUT  C001 

I    ZIGZAG  JOURNEYS  IN  THE  WHITE  CITY.  BOST 


